


Tales of the First Age

by Susana Rosa (SusanaR)



Series: Desperate Hours Alternative Universe (DH AU) D version [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Dragons, Fall of Gondolin, Family, Family Drama, Family History, Father-Son Relationship, First Age, Gen, Gondolin, Hurt/Comfort, Kinslaying, Second Kinslaying, Spanking, War of Wrath, Women Being Awesome, sons of feanor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SusanaR/pseuds/Susana%20Rosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A number of mostly unconnected short stories set in the First Age, in the years of the Sun. Probably most of the stories will focus around Elrond's family.</p><p>Current Story Arc: The Golden and Ebony Flowers of Gondolin </p><p>Current Story Arc Summary: There is no one in this world whom Arandil enjoys irritating more than his own father, the great Lord Glorfindel. In fact, it’s always been this way.  </p><p>This is a story of the relationship between son and father, from Gondolin to Lindon to Imladris, and some places in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Way

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kaylee for help with Sindarin and Quenya. Without you, I would be utterly lost with respect to the firstborn languages.
> 
> This first chapter is set in F.A. 538, on the night when the sons of Feanor came to the Havens of Sirion. Elrond and Elros were born in 532, so they are about six years old. I am assuming that they age more like humans than elves, but still a bit more slowly than humans, so I picture them as probably the equivalent of a human 4 and a half years old. But a very precocious four and a half years old .
> 
> "Love is shown in your deeds, not in your words." -Fr. Jerome Cummings

Elwing ran, two small hands clutched in her own hands. Elros on her right, tonight, rather than her left, as Elrond had sprained his left wrist yesterday afternoon. She heard the screams behind her as the last of their brave defenders fell, but she could not think of that loss. Nor of the elves and men and children, friends and neighbors all, slaughtered in the streets of the Havens of Sirion. She would not react, not until her children were safe, and the attackers knew their objective had been put beyond their reach.

"Up, and in." She commanded her sons, reaching the path to the cave.

"But we're not allowed without an adult..." Elrond murmured, eyes wide and shocky. Even so, he remembered the rules, chapter and verse. He'd disregard them if he found a loophole and thought it worth their while, but he knew them.

"And El's hurt. He can't climb the last part." Elros protested, practical as always. He loved climbing up to the cave, and the forbidden bothered him not a bit.

"Go, now, ionnath-nin!" Elwing ordered sharply, "Help eachother, and STAY PUT. Do not come out for anything, until or unless you hear Uncle Cirdan, or cousin Ereinion, or Arandil, or Elain." She waited for their nods, and then she ran, ran as she had never run before. But carefully, taking the time to hide her trail. Silently, Elwing blessed Arandil, who hated violence but had taken up her sword lessons when her Naneth-by-law Idril had sailed. Who had insisted that Elwing learn to track and conceal her path even on the darkest of nights, because his unknown father had insisted Arandil learn thusly.

Soon enough, Elwing saw her quarry. Red hair streaming in the moonlight, two of the sons of Feanor, or their followers, Elwing neither knew nor cared which. "Hey, you!" She yelled loudly, poising herself at the top of the path that led to the top of the cliff, at the base of which the ocean at high tide formed a whirlpool, deep and terribly treacherous.

Elwing waited until the handsome faces, contorted in battle rage, had turned her way, before adding, "You sons of orcs! Here's your silmaril! This way!" Then Elwing ran, night gown whipping around her legs. She heard them behind her, but too far, too far behind to catch her. Elwing was Earendil's friend as well as his wife, and she had loved running beside him. But the twins' birth had taken its toll, and she felt a stitch in her side and a pain in her knees as she approached the top of the cliff. She didn't look back; thanks to Arandil's relentless training, she knew how far behind her pursuers were, just from the sounds of their footfalls.

She did pause to hold the silmaril aloft so that the sons of orcs could see it clearly, but she did not hesitate. She just kept running until her feet touched only air. Then she took a deep breath, put her feet together and her arms at her sides, and prepared for the cold water. As she fell, she wished her last words to Elros and Elrond had been "tye melinye," or "im meleth ce" or even "I love you," in the language of her human father-by-law, Tuor. But more than that, she hoped her sons would live. And Elwing knew she had done her very best, to give her sons a chance of surviving this night.


	2. The Parley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parley between Maglor and Cirdan, when Maglor agreed to meet with Cirdan, to give him Elwing and Earendil's twin sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in late 538, 539 or early 540 of the First Age.

Cirdan the Shipwright, oldest of the elves in Middle Earth, former foster-father and current advisor to the young Aran of the Noldor elves, sighed in relief. Maglor had kept his word.

The dark-haired warrior, a son of Feanor, had the two elflings with him on his horse, the one riding in front of him, the one behind. Cirdan could not tell them apart. He remembered Elros as the bolder of the two, and Elrond as the more observant. But they would not meet his eyes, so he could not even hazard a guess.

Maglor nodded to him. "Lord Cirdan."

"Maglor." Cirdan returned politely. The sons of Feanor had been dispossessed of their titles as Prince and Lord, else Cirdan would have granted Maglor that courtesy. This elf had committed horrible crimes; but in happier days, Maglor had been the greatest singer of their people. And even in the midst of a slaughter, he had saved Elwing and Earendil's young children. Cirdan would show him respect, despite Cirdan's own anger for the terrible acts the sons of Feanor had perpetrated upon his kin and their own.

Maglor assisted the twins to dismount. The children still did not meet Cirdan's eyes. He knelt down to greet them, his soldiers still watching Maglor attentively.

"I am Cirdan, young ones. You may call me uncle, as I was uncle to your father and your mother."

The two dark haired, gray eyed, solemn elflings met his eyes, and seemed unafraid, but not....pleased, either.

"Greet Lord Cirdan, Elrond, Elros." Maglor commanded shortly, but not unkindly. "He has put himself at great risk to come get you. At least nod if you won't speak."

The two children nodded politely enough to Cirdan, then turned to Maglor. The one on the right nodded gravely to Maglor in farewell, the one on the left nodded, then changed his mind and ran to embrace the son of Feanor. Maglor was clearly shocked, but he knelt to receive the affection.

"You'll be better off with Lord Cirdan, Elros." The dispossessed Prince comforted. The little elfling, Elros, still the bolder of the two, nodded, but tears were in his eyes. Elrond, too, seemed...not unfond, of Maglor. Cirdan sighed.

"Let go your oath, Maglor, and I will speak on your behalf to Aran Gil-galad." He offered. Cirdan could hear his guard captain grinding his teeth.

Maglor patted Elros gently on the back, then placed him on the ground by his brother. "Nay, Lord Cirdan. There is no redemption for me."

"We are the first-born. We live forever. In that time, all things are possible, Maglor." Cirdan argued, voice carefully neutral for the sake of this elf's having saved his small kinsmen, though he was furious still.

"Not all things, I have too much blood on my hands. Even they cannot forgive me," Maglor gestured to the twins, "though they have been kind to me in exchange for my care of them. I trust you can do as well for them, if not better."

Accepting the change of topic, Cirdan promised. "I will do my best for them, out of love for their parents and grandparents. I confess it has been several years since last I visited Elwing, what are they like?"

Cirdan meant, what do they eat, and where are they in their schooling, and most importantly, why are they not talking? But Maglor apparently took his question more existentially.

The son of Feanor frowned at the silent twins thoughtfully. "They're elflings, but with human resiliency and fragility. They're about six years old, but they seem more like ten. That may be lucky - 'twas a week before I found them, and I doubt elflings of six years could have survived so long without parent or caregiver. They, umm, disappear, if you take your eyes off of them for too long. And I think one of them may have the gift of prophecy, because they've been using some kind of...future-telling, or maybe just heightened observation and intuition, to really disquiet my soldiers. That's part of the reason I'm giving them back to you, despite the risk I might get an arrow in the back for my trouble. I don't know how much longer they'd be safe with my people - the elves I rule think the twins are our doom, sent by the Valar, upon us. I think the twins did it on purpose."

Cirdan looked at the quiet, non-responsive elflings. They looked much like any other elflings of six or seven. A bit older, perhaps, a bit more like human children. A very adorable mixture, although the frozen expressions on the otherwise cute little faces were a bit...disturbing. Still, "Maglor, aren't you exaggerating? Elflings or human children, they're too young to plan an organized campaign to become so unpopular that their lives were in danger if they weren't returned to their own people."

Maglor looked at Cirdan with an almost sympathetic expression on his face. "They're hard to describe." The warrior and traitor said. "They're like no other beings who have ever lived, and thus are unpredictable. Don't take your eyes off of them, if you can help it.

Elros, moving a shoulder and twitching a foot, silently exclaimed *We're right here.*

Elrond raised an eyebrow and wiggled a finger. *Of course we are. Adults just treat elflings - or children- like dumb animals.*

Elros waited until Cirdan was deep in conversation with Maglor about the twins' refusal to talk, then he puffed out his cheeks and tapped his foot on the ground, which meant *THIS chump is going to be easy to escape. He really believes we can't talk. What a moron.* The twins were in agreement that they did not like Cirdan, because he had helped their Ada, Earendil, build his ship. Then Earendil had sailed away.

Elrond more covertly watched Cirdan as well, before toeing his shoe in the dirt to make a clumsy infinity symbol, and catching Elros' eyes meaningfully, cautioning wordlessly *Cirdan was Nowe. He's older than dirt. We'll have to be very careful.* The twins were also in agreement that they were better off with Cirdan in Lindon then with Maglor amongst his traitorous followers. The old elf might have helped their father to leave them, but Earendil had gone willingly. Maglor, though he had cared for them, had been one of the elves who had killed almost everyone they knew, and driven their mother away, possibly to her death.The twins planned to look for her, and their father. They did not plan to stay in Lindon with Cirdan for very long.

Maglor bid a final farewell to the twins. Elros spontaneously hugged him again. Elrond nodded gravely again, and extended a hand. As Maglor rode away, he realized that someone had dropped his favorite lute pick, lost since he had found the twins, into his pocket.


	3. When Firond Felagund Came Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A father's reflection on the son he lost, and the son he got back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also set in the DH AU, as are all of my stories.
> 
> Thanks to Kaylee for patiently listening, and trying to help me keep the geography of Aman straight.
> 
>  
> 
> This story occurs around First Age Year 500 (of the years of the sun). Finrod Felagund is Galadriel's oldest brother, and the son of Arafinwe (Finarfin), King of the Noldor elves in Tirion, in Aman (the undying lands).

"Your son has been reborn." The Valar told us, and my wife and I rejoiced. I appointed my sister Findis as regent of the Noldor in Tirion, for a time. That one decision stepped on no end of toes, including Findis' toes, given her devout attempt to be the most conventional elf in the family. But I did not care, I had to be with my elfling, returned to us at last.

He was so different...Amarie, his betrothed, of all of us knew best how different he would be. Amarie's calling is to care for orphaned and reborn young elves, so she has spent much time with those just returned from the Halls of Mandos. Mostly elves younger than our beloved Finarfin, but also sometimes their loved ones, so she knew...that his memories would be incomplete. That he would suffer mood swings, and need much rest. That remembering the trauma of his death would be terribly difficult for him, but that he must do so in order to move on with his new life. Those things, Amarie warned us of.

But none of us expected that Finarfin would remember not just the one event of his death, but trauma after trauma. That he had seen centuries of war, been betrayed by his own, and tortured to death by the Enemy's agent. Even what we had known, of our children's sufferings on Beleriand...we did not truly know.

But Finrod did. I call him that, now, for he has asked to be so called. He is a different elf than my eldest son who left. Likewise tall and fair, an elf other ellyn would follow to the end of existence. But also a hardened, hollow-eyed survivor, where he was once young, hopeful, and ambitious. Less than five centuries did he spend in Beleriand, and it aged him beyond the eldest of our elders. Few of the other reborn seemed as haunted, and I began to question the wisdom of the Valar in deeming Finrod ready to return to his hroa.

Still, he remained my son. Time passed, and I saw him laugh again, at the antics of some of Amarie's elfing wards. Amarie understood him best, I think. After only a little time, Amarie and Finrod renewed their engagement. Earwen and I did not think it wise. We felt that they, especially our son, were ready. But Finod said only that life in Beleriand had taught him the value of not wasting time, and Amarie would not be turned, either. In a scant two years' time they were married.

Just five years after he was returned to us, Finrod, for so he still insisted he be called, started aiding me with the governing of our people. He showed an interest in our security arrangements, beginning when he caught a young elf who had successfully snuck into the innermost chambers of the palace on a dare.

At first, the General of my army, the only one of Nolofinwe's primary lieutenants to have stayed behind, sneered at my son when Finrod came to offer his aid. Called him 'exile' as if it were an insult rather than a word.

My son Finarfin, the ellon who had continued on over the Helecaraxe when I turned back, he would have lost his temper. He would have responded to the general's disrespect in kind.

This Finrod, this leader who my son had become...he laughed. He just laughed. And when he had finished laughing, he invited the good General to attack him, and all of the dozen or so armed elves the General had with him, also. And then he ordered his guards to stand off.

Had I been there, I would have countermanded that order. But I was otherwise occupied, and so my General was treated to the experience of being tossed head-over-heels onto his back by my son. The other guards were likewise disposed of. Most of them required the services of a healer and a day's rest before returning to their duties. Finrod was fresh as a daisy. Well, until I got a hold of him. I hadn't just gotten my precious son back, only to have him go rushing into avoidable danger, after all. Finrod took the next day to recover from the soundest spanking I'd ever given any of my children. The day after that, he offered to teach the General and his elves anything they would wish to learn from him.

By the end of the week, my General had Finrod in charge of training our security forces. The General wasn't a fool, and I blessed Nolofinwe for having selected an elf who could learn from defeat.

Finrod and Finarfin were not entirely different elves. They both loved a good joke. Somewhat more than myself, in point of fact. I was more than just a bit skeptical when Finrod and my General appointed the young elf who had infiltrated the palace on a lark to the royal security team itself. But he proved a loyal and capable guard, and my faith in my returned son's judgment grew.

I began to have Finrod assume more of the duties of my heir. By and large that went well, although training of our soldiers continued to occupy much of his time. I also had to continually remind my Finrod about little things that were different, between the laws of Aman and what had passed for laws in Beleriand. Amongst those 'little things' being that that duels to first blood were not an acceptable way of settling disputes, or ordering other elves to settle their disputes.

Less than a decade after Finrod was reborn, not even a century after his death, Earendil and Elwing arrived in Aman. And I learned for what purpose my son had been reborn after such a scant time in the Halls of Mandos. The army Finrod had trained accompanied me to Beleriand, and fought side-by-side with Finrod's beloved humans.

I left my son -and heir- Finrod behind as my regent. That didn't please anyone, either.

Well, except perhaps Findis.


	4. What Should We Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A group of village elders discuss what should be done with two foundlings, during the first age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kaylee and Emma for reading this over, and discussing the fall of Doriath with me. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This chapter takes place in 507 of the First Age, some short weeks or months after the Fall of Doriath, in the forests of Ossiriand.

In a village in the forests of Ossiriand, where the reclusive Laiquendi, called wood-elves, made their home, a small group of village elders sat down to discuss the problem posed by two young elflings, found wandering alone in the snow by the village's hunters.

"What in Eru's name should we do with them, Neirin?" The village weaver and eldest elder, an elleth with fawn colored hair, asked in mournful dismay.

"What can we do, Dilys my dear, but take them in, of course." Neirin, the village carpenter and blacksmith, replied firmly. Neirin was nearly as old as Dilys, and both had known Denethor, before the Laiquendi became leaderless in the wake of his death.

"Well, of course we shall care for them, heal their poor hurts and see them well again." Dilys replied, as if she was afraid Neirin, though a capable ellon, might be a little slow this day. "But we can't keep them."

"Why not?" Replied Dilys' son-by-law Bedwyr, a healer. "My lass Eirian is just their age, so is Neirin's great-granddaughter Serenwen. Be good for them to have some company in the village, and these two little lads are such nice elflings. You'll see, they'll be right as rain soon enough, running around and playing as elflings should."

Dilys sighed, and wondered if all of the male Laiquendi in their region of Ossiriand had gone mad that day. "We can't keep them because they're not ours." She said slowly, "I have no doubt that they, personally, are very good elflings. But they are not OUR elflings."

"You're afraid." Fion, the village's finest hunter, and trainer and leader of their milita, observed softly. "They're just elflings, Dilys, it makes no sense to fear them."

"Its not them Dilys fears, its these." Bedwyr, who had seen to the hurts of the poor elflings, drew out the jewelry the two young ellyn had been wearing. Each young boy had borne several rings on his tiny fingers, the most ornate of which had two names engraved in a delicate, ancient script on the miniscule band. Great skill had carved the names; Elured on the sapphire ring, Elurin on the ruby ring. Each elfling had also worn a necklace like a noble lord's chain of office, semi-precious stones linked by a golden chain. The clasps of each bore the engraving, "a gift of Turgon, delivered by the talons of the Eagles."

Fion raised an eyebrow. "Heirs to Doriath, which exists no more. Of interest, evidently, to King Turgon of Gondolin. But Gondolin cannot be found. I'd say these elflings belong to us as much as anyone." Fion was already invested in the elflings. He had been the leader of the hunting party that found them, impressed by their endurance and faith, having followed the beasts all the way from fallen Doriath to within ten leagues of their village.

Dilys sighed again. "There must have been survivors of Doriath, kin who would claim them."

Neirin shrugged. "King Dior and Queen Nimloth both died. Little Princess Elwing and the silmaril they were killed for, are together, being cared for by retainers of Dior's, at the mouth of the River Sirion. But nowhere on Beleriand is safe, these days. Particularly not anyone in connection with something so coveted by the sons of Feanor."

Fion, Bedwyr, and Dilys considered that. Neirin often knew things before he should. His granddaughter Heddwyn, though the youngest of the elders, was the most reliable predicter of fair or foul weather in their village.

Heddwyn herself added in the distracted tone that usually indicated a true prophecy, "They will die if you send them back to their family. The Kin-Slayers will come again, and they will be warriors, not elflings. These twins will not be shown even the scant mercy they received this time, exposed to the elements. They will be killed."

Dilys sighed a third time. Heddwyn was an elleth, but Dilys should have known better than to expect her to be sensible. Heddwyn was the sort to bring home a wounded wild cat, and train it to hunt rabbits. True, her pets had never attacked anyone, but there could always be a first time. It just wasn't natural.

"They might bring war here, someday." Dilys felt compelled to argue further. She was losing, and she knew it. The twin elflings were adorable, and special. Her heart had been won over as well, though she felt compelled to play the role of responsible adult.

"War is coming, whether we want it, or not." Bedwyr argued. "The attacks by orcs increase yearly. I, for one, will not stand by idle again, if our kindred make an alliance and stand against Morgoth."

"We can teach them what they need to know, Dilys." Fion argued. "You and Neirin and Heddwyn can teach them reading and writing and figuring; I can teach them hunting and weapon-craft; and Bedwyr and his apprentices can teach them basichealing. When they come of age, we can teach them whatever trade appeals."

"Very well." Dilys had known this was a losing battle. "But no one can know who they were, whose children they were. We shall not even tell them, until they come of age. They are young enough, and traumatized enough. They will quickly forget any life but this."

"Agreed." Stated Neirin firmly. "They're safer, and better off, away from all that, as elflings. When they come of age, they can make their own choice."

"They shall be Elboron and Eldun; no longer Elured and Eluin." Bedwyr suggested, adding "I will tell Eirian and Serenwen. They are taking turns keeping the elflings company; and they chatter constantly. By the time they are well, the poor boys will be calling themselves Elboron and Eldun."

And so it was.


	5. Oh...umm, hi, Ereinion?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earendil and Elwing's sons were not idle during the War of Wrath, even though sometimes doing their part meant they had to run off and join a different army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in approximately Year 565 of the First Age, Years of the Sun

Aran Gil-Galad of the Noldor Elves fought to keep his attention on General Galdor of the House of Beor, one of the leaders of the Edain. What had come to be called the War of Wrath was approaching its second decade, and the Edain were some of the elves' greatest allies. It would not do to offend Galdor. Particularly not near the end of a brutal campaign season, with winter approaching. Ereinion had never liked winter, but so long into this miserable war that they could not win, and could not afford to lose, he looked forward to the rest. Though he would be spending a second winter coordinating a search for his missing cousins, the twin elflings Elros and Elrond, who had disappeared from their chamber one night with no word or note. Ereinion was aware that they had wanted to join the war; but they were barely teenagers. Far too young. No elven commander could fail to notice that, and all of his captains had searched their ranks for the missing elflings, with no success. Ereinion noticed that Galdor had stopped speaking and winced. "My apologies, friend Galdor. I am afraid my attention wanders, this night."

"Eh, no matter, Gil-galad." Galdor waved off his apology, and redrew the lines on the sand table to begin his explanation again. Fortunately, Galdor was not easily offended. Or killed. His men had been near overcome earlier that day, so Ereinion and his guards had swarmed to their defense. In the process, Ereinion had incurred a minor wound when an orc blade slipped between the joints of his armor, near his elbow. Since night had fallen not long after, Galdor had offered the hospitality of the Edain camp, and Ereinion had accepted. Though he was somewhat skeptical of the offer of an Edain healer.

One came in when Galdor was explaining a possible new strategy for bottling up Morgoth's forces before the winter hiatus, so Ereinion paid him hardly any mind, except to note that he must be rather shy, and a fighter as well as a healer, judging by the mail shirt under his hastily donned healer's robe. Ereinion had not been expecting much of a human healer; but the young man's hands on his arm were deft and gentle, his touch clearly skilled. Turning to thank him, Ereinion was shocked to meet a very familiar pair of gray eyes.

"Oh..umm, hi, Ereinion?" The Aran's baby cousin, Lord Elrond, offered tentatively.

The next few hours were a bit of a blur to Ereinion. Cirdan ended up in the Edain camp as well, and a near brawl erupted. On the one side was Ereinion, who wanted to drag both twins back to his camp by their half-pointy ears, and wallop them until their yelps scared the orcs. On the other side were the Edain, who viewed the twins as adult warriors who had earned the right to make their own choices. The twins argued that they were only HALF elven, and therefore probably were of age, anyway. When Ereinion called Elros a useless, difficult, child, Elrond, who up until this point had been fairly quiet, countered that "child" Elros had saved his cousin the Aran's life, that day. Cirdan raised an eyebrow, and Ereinion frowned at the twins' armor. Yes, Ereinion realized, it had been the two of them who had swept in to relieve the beleaguered General Galdor and his elven rescuers. But still. The twins were children.

At the end of the debate, Ereinion and Cirdan were forced to let the twins keep fighting along side their human kin, for the good of the elves' alliance with the Edain. At least 'til the end of this campaign season. But when Ereinion got his little brat cousins, whom he had just wanted to keep safe, alone...

But for this day, and the foreseeable future, the Edain had taken the twins' side. Elros grinned at Ereinion and Cirdan, safely out of arm's reach, behind a wall of tall, broad, Edain warriors. Elrond, on the other hand, looked a little apologetic. Ereinion noted to himself that this whole "run away to join the Edain so that we can fight in the War of Wrath" scheme probably hadn't been Elrond's idea.

Several days later, when Morgoth's forces had dug into their winter positions and the battle had ceased until the cold broke, Ereinion was surprised to see a very unhappy Elrond and Elros, being led to his tent by General Galdor.

"They're warriors of the Edain." Galdor reaffirmed, then offered "But they are your young kinsmen, who owe you allegiance, as well. We'll want them back, whole, for the next season's campaign. Until then," Galdor grinned, "they're your problem."

Ereinion thanked him, and just looked at the twins.

They looked back at him for a moment.

Elros looked a bit sick. Elrond grabbed his arm when he would have taken off. "Running won't help." Elrond argued softly.

Elros snorted. "Easy for you to say. Their arms are always tired by the time they get to you."

Ereinion laughed, then surprised the twins by hugging them soundly. The scolding could wait; for now, Ereinion was just glad that his baby brothers had survived, and would live to fight again. Even though he would have preferred that they never have to fight at all. At least not until they came of age, curse it.


	6. Ghosts of the Isle of Balar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The human ship captains and shipwrights on the Isle of Balar think that their harbor is haunted. Aran Ereinion and his family and friends discuss how to prove that just isn't so. Elros and Elrond discuss a not-unrelated project of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kaylee for reading this over, and helping me figure out how not to mess up too badly on how these elves were all related to one another. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> A/N: The twins are 9 or 10 years old in this story. For an elf, that would be the equivalent of about four years old, size wise. I think the twins probably look more like five or six. This is early F.A. 542 or late 541, and the twins have been with Cirdan for less than two years, possibly less than a year and a half. The twins have been with Cirdan for less than two years, possibly less than a year and a half.

The very young High King of the Noldo, Aran Ereinion, grimaced. "I don't understand. We've told them and told them, Atar. There are NO ghosts in the harbor."

"I know, yonya." Lord Cirdan, the King's foster-father answered with a fond but tired smile, as he cut up steak and mushrooms for a very skeptical Elros. "In fact, we've assured them that there are no ghosts whatsoever on the Isle of Balar, which I believe also to be true."

Lord Arandil, the Aran's new emissary to the Edain, the human allies of the elves, sighed, "I don't know what to say, Aran-nin." He apologized to Ereinion. "Materials keep disappearing. No one has suffered any real hardship, as most of the lengths of wood, although they are of very high quality, are also very small - scraps, really, from timbers and boards cut down for other construction."

Ereinion made a face. He had asked Arandil to call him by name at these informal working dinners. Arandil was only a few decades older than Ereinion, after all. Neither of them had yet reached two centuries of age. But the Aran's newest diplomat was very formal, and not a little bit stubborn. He would call the King by name when it was just the two of them, but not in front of Ereinion's other intimidating relatives. Arandil was sometimes more relaxed when his wife Elain could join them, but Elain was a healer, and was attending the very pregnant wife of an Edain captain this night.

"Ghosts do not, as a rule, take small bits of wood and discarded wooden pegs, or gently used tools and navigation equipment left lying about." Lady Galadriel added. "Which Arandil and I explained to the Captains of the Edain vessels. But I am not sure they believed us."

Elrond turned the salt cellar a half circle, then tapped his glass, meaning, "We have GOT to be more CAREFUL, Elros."

Elros gave his brother a reproachful look, arranging his uneaten food in a specific pattern to say, "When you say WE and CAREFUL, you always mean that you think that "I" should be more careful. You should just say that. If we did this on YOUR time table, we'd never finish building our ship."

"YOU should be more careful." Elrond retorted by raising an eyebrow, "Ereinion almost caught you missing today. I had to pretend to fall down and hurt my foot, and then act like I was really interested in a hermit crab. You CAN'T be gone for that long again, I don't care how nice of an awl and a compass you bring back." Elrond explained further, picking up and shaking his glass.

"Here, Elrond." Ereinion had mistaken Elrond's actions for a request for more cordial, and leaned over to pour some of the sweet fruit drink for the younger twin. Elrond nodded his thanks, giving his older foster-brother a smile. He hadn't meant to ask for cordial, but he liked Ereinion. Their cousin young King was really nice to him and Elros.

Cirdan sighed. "Ereinion, please. The house rule is that the twins may have ONE glass of cordial, then they may only have water, unless they ASK for the sweeter beverage using words."

Elrond's smile disappeared. Elros, who didn't even like cordial and usually gave his to Elrond, glared at Cirdan, obviously thinking unpleasant things about their guardian's new policy on verbalization. Elrond, who did like cordial, hid a sigh and reached for the salt again, accidentally on purpose knocking his drink over to catch Elros' attention. "CAREFUL careful, hano. Cirdan READS MINDS."

"Elrond!" Cirdan scolded gently, reaching for napkins. "Please try to be more careful, elfling." Elrond looked at him sadly, further taking attention away from Elros, and Cirdan softened. "Now, now, yonya, there is no need for such upset. If you would like more cordial, you may have some. You just need to say so." Elrond looked away. Elrond though that Cirdan was fairly nice too, even if he had helped the twins' father to sail away forever. Probably that wasn't even a bad thing - Earendil would have just died when the sons of Feanor came, along with almost everybody else except for the twins. But Elros was determined that they would sail away to find Earendil, and the idea might not have occurred to him if Elrond hadn't suggested it. Elrond hadn't been serious, but Elros was. And they did everything together.

Cirdan frowned as Elrond remained quiet, then poured the elfling more water. Elrond sighed mournfully.

"Smelly old elf." Elros said by wrinkling his nose, before accepting a buttered biscuit from Arandil with a wide grin.

"Perhaps if we were to post a look-out?" Arandil proposed more cautiously than was his normal wont, intimidated in front of the other impressive dinner guests.

"Perhaps," Cirdan mused, "Not a soldier, preferably, or at least not a, hmm, over-eager elf. After all, no one has been harmed, and the economic cost of these thefts has been minimal."

"Perhaps your trainee soldiers could take shifts watching the places where these items have been disappearing, kinsman." Celeborn suggested to Ereinion.

The young Aran, glad that he was no longer counted a trainee, nodded. "That might work," Ereinion thought aloud, "though their training officers would have to explain to them, possibly more than once, that we do not wish harm to come to the thief, should he be apprehended. This "ghost" might be one of the Edain, and I would prefer not to compound the problem of "ghosts" with a hurt to one of our human allies, even a petty criminal."

"A good thought." Celeborn agreed, carefully not mentioning that Ereinion, as a young trainee, would have needed an instruction such as that repeated several times. Their young King was not so much over-eager as very dedicated to his duties, and protective of his people. Though Celeborn could not imagine a younger Ereinion having harmed a human who wasn't offering him violence.

"If the "ghost" is a human, it might be best just to hand him over to the Edain." Galadriel pointed out. "Let them deal with him."

Celeborn frowned. "They don't still execute people for thievery, do they, Cirdan?"

Elros's nerves were pretty steady, but neither twin had thought they were risking death. He spilled his milk. "Elros!" Ereinion scolded lightly, almost chuckling. "I know its usually Elrond following your lead, but this probably isn't the best time to choose to return the favor."

Handing more napkins to his older son, Cirdan assured. "There will be no execution. Our allies amongst the humans have never killed their own for such minor acts, Celeborn. Though some of those who fight for Morgoth well might. But the humans who bring their ships to our harbor are all of the three houses of the Edain. A human who had perpetrated such minor, if unsettling, crimes would have no more to fear than a whipping and being forced to make restitution."

"Hmm, if the the thief IS one of the second-born," Arandil suggested shyly, "It might be best to just have him followed, and then invite some of the Edain Captains to help "catch" him in the act. Otherwise, they may not believe we've found their ghost."

"A wise thought, Arandil." Galadriel approved, giving the young diplomat an approving look. Arandil's tact and subtlety were all the more remarkable, when one knew, as she did, who his father had been.

"What if the thief is an elf?" Ereinion asked. "I can't imagine an elf stealing ship-building materials, even an elf-teen, but it is not impossible. After all, it is certainly not a ghost."

"If the thief is an elf-teen, a well-strapped bottom and a summer working down at the docks, for restitution, should suffice." Cirdan put in, with a tired smile. "It is not so great a matter, but our young should not be stealing from humans, nor scaring them, even by accident." Cirdan then frowned, and looked quite stern. "And I do not approve of anyone stealing from the shipwrights. I would be happy to strap the young elf in question myself."

Elrond looked to his twin, folding his napkin and patting it to say, "I do not want to be executed, whipped, or strapped. And this is a nice place. I LIKE going to lessons. I don't WANT to leave, but I will. But we MUST be more careful. Ereinion is not an idiot. If we keep playing chase me, find me, and taking an hour to find eachother, he is GOING to catch on."

Elros flicked a bit of mushroom back towards Elrond, "Ereinion is a prat. He barely spends any time with us anymore."

Elrond rolled his eyes. "Ereinion is the King. He barely has any time. He has King work and soldier work and councils with mean, stuffy elves."

Elros picked up his glass and chugged his water, earning a scold about appropriate dinner table behavior from their great aunt Galadriel, who was normally very kind to the twins. Both liked Galadriel fairly well, even though they had to be careful around her, as she could understand the edges of their conversations without really trying.

Elrond hid a giggle, and swayed in his seat, replying "Yes, I know Ereinion's been sneaking out to go drinking on nights when Cirdan stays late at the harbor. But that's Ereinon's lookout."

Elros rearranged his knife and fork, "As if we'd tell Cirdan anyway. Stuffy elf."

"But a SMART elf, Elros." Elrond pleaded, lining up his peas. "Careful, careful."

Elros sighed, and ate a specific bite of steak. "Careful, hano. Promise."

"If you two are quite finished with your conversation?" Cirdan inquired dryly.

The twins looked up, startled and guilty. Cirdan could often tell that they had been communicating with one another, though they were quite sure he had not picked up on very much of the content. Elros met Cirdan's eyes and nodded. He didn't apologize. Elros didn't, if he didn't like a person and he wasn't sorry. And he didn't like Cirdan. Nor did he think it was anyone's business but his and his twin's whether or not they talked.

"Very well." Their guardian said with a sigh. "Neither of you ate dinner particularly well, so I think it is time for bed."

Elros glared. Elros did like dessert. Elrond liked fruit, but not most sweets. He usually gave them to his twin.

"I'll take them, Atarinya." Ereinion offered, "Arandil, care to assist? I can only slay one balrog at once."

Arandil smiled, though his smile seemed a bit sad. "Of course, gwador. I would be honored."

The twins, at the announcement of this favorite game, set off running down the hall, mock monster roars echoing back to the dining table. It was the most the twins had said that week.

"WALK little balrogs, at least until you are out of sight, or Atar will scold me as well!" Ereinion warned cheerfully, as he and Arandil drew mock swords and pretended to fight the mighty nine year olds.

"They are still not talking?" Celeborn inquired, concerned, pouring another glass of wine for himself and his wife, and their friend and elder kinsman the shipwright.

"No." Cirdan answered wearily. "Arandil's wife Elain is the only healer who can come near the twins without inducing a week of nightmares. She is sure that there is nothing wrong with their throats or lungs, physically. The other healers who have examined them concur. So it is either a mental block, or simply their choice. Ereinion and I are inclined to think the second, since they will sometimes play games, like chase the balrog," Cirdan smiled slightly at the happy roars and giggles still coming from down the hall, "where they will vocalize. But they refuse to use words. They will write in Sindarin and Quenya, but not speak."

"Give them time." Galadriel advised, eyes far-off. "Their fate is unique, but there is time."

"If you have any advice, kinswoman," Cirdan asked imploringly, "I would be delighted to hear it. They seem to be making progress, but they are still hurting. Even with Ereinion, whom they seem to like, they will not communicate openly, even without words."

Galadriel shook her head, regretful. "I only know that they must follow a unique path, Cirdan. You seem to be doing well with them. Last year they would not have made it through a whole dinner."

"They are the great-grandchildren of Luthien." Celeborn put in with a wistful smile, "they must do things at their own time and pace. I would not worry about their not talking, if I were you."

"Oh?" Cirdan asked, intrigued. Celeborn had known Luthien well.

"Indeed," Celeborn grinned. "I would worry instead about how to handle them when they DO start talking."


	7. Dragon's Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel's son faced dragonfire during the Fall of Gondolin, and was never the same again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: The dragons at the Fall of Gondolin might well have been, from what I can tell, an earlier model. Shorter and stouter than Smaug, and wingless, they might well have had less thick armor, as well. Still not a creature any elf would want to fight. 
> 
> A/N 2: Many thanks to Kaylee for coming up with the idea of having Erestor be Glorfindel's grandson, and help with naming him (both names). I hope that I spelled them right! As always, all mistakes are mine.

'At first it didn't even feel hot,' thought Glorendil son of Glorfindel, scion of the House of the Golden Flower, as he shielded his King Turgon from the blast. 

The tongue of flame melted his shield. His arm felt encased by ice, for a least several heart beats before the pain began. 

Glorendil screamed, and Turgon dragged him away, concealing them both behind a marble column, one which was miraculously still standing. 

Panting in agony - he knew he must not scream for it would reveal their hiding spot to the dragon- Glorendil leaned against his King. The scattered survivors of Aran Turgon's bodyguard, Glorendil's fellows, regrouped around them. Aran Turgon and his personal honor guard had drawn the worst of the creatures further into the great hall, whilst Glorendil's father and Princess Tuor led the bulk of the surviving Gondolindrim to safety

"We have little left that will even inconvenience that beast and its fellows, Aran-nin." Spoke Captain Lumbacundo. 

"We have a roof." Glorendil murmured, looking up at the arched ceiling, with its rotating panorama of sun and night sky. Millions of jewels and decades of work by artisans and engineers had gone into the building of it, hundreds of panels with clouds, rain, sunrises, sunsets, and every season of stars. Stars made of a steel and mithril alloy, forged by dwarves and honed by elven smiths. 

"Hush, titta Arandil." Soothed Turgon, evidently mistaking Glorendil's utterance for pain-induced nonsense. 

He frowned, and tried again. Captain Lumbundo was saying something about getting Aran Turgon to safety, but...

"Stupid Captain Lumbacundo," Glorendil said, unfortunately aloud, "The Aran will not go." 

"Quiet, Soldier." Lumbacundo snapped, after he and Turgon both stared at Glorendil for half a heart beat, "We don't have time for this now." Lumbacundo continued with calm urgency, "Majesty, that ceiling Laurefindilion so admires might fall at any moment." 

"Not the ceiling." Glorendil clarified, wishing that he could think beyond the agony consuming his arm. "The stars. The stars need to fall." 

Everyone was staring at him again. 

"On the dragon." He added, in case that hadn't been clear. 

"On the dragon...." Lumbacundo hissed, laying a gentle hand on Glorendil's knee. "Majesty, I will go and move the panels." It would be a one-way trip. The other guards would do their best to distract the dragon which still followed them, but it would not be enough. And the commotion would likely draw the beast's fellows. 

Turgon closed his eyes in pain, and nodded briefly. "Your service honors me, Lundo." He said softly to his long-time retainer. 

"I never REALLY hated you." Glorendil offered, feeling that he should add something after having just accidentally called his former training officer stupid, "And I have always respected your courage and heart." 

"You are worse than your father, in ways both good and bad." Lumbacundo replied, his dark eyes trained on Glorendil as he stripped off the heaviest of his armor to aid in his sprint, "Whether they love you or hate you, no one will ever forget the golden and ebony flowers of Gondolin." 

Then Lumbacundo was gone. The dragon roared, one mighty claw swiping at Lumbacundo. The Captain leapt over it, then made a second leap, dodging the beast's jaw by such a narrow margin that Lumbacundo lost a braid. A spear thrown by Turgon distracted the dragon just long enough for Lumbacundo to make good his dash. The spear also gave away their position. Glorendil, being half-carried behind the Aran's granite throne, must have lost consciousness for several moments. The next thing he knew, the stars were falling. 

"Hold up Lundo's shield with your good arm, titta Arandil." King Turgon told him gently, using his pet name for Glorendil. "Little King's friend," it meant, and ever before Turgon had only used it on the most informal of occasions. 

Finding strength from he knew not where, Glorendil held up the shield. He did scream in torment as one of the heavy stars glanced off his shield, but the angle of the throne and the columns mostly kept them safe. Half of the dragons lay dead, after, including the large one that had targeted the King and his beleaguered guards. The great lizards seemed discouraged - perhaps they had not known that they could die? Unfortunately, the orcs were not so discouraged. A healer Glorendil didn't recognize found them in the thick of the fight. A flask was held up to his lips and he drank. The pain faded to a mere discomfort, and Glorendil of the House of the Golden Flower drew his blade and waded boldly into the fray. 

Time passed, he knew not how much. There were ranks upon ranks of orcs, and the dragons regrouped as well. Glorendil's shield arm was useless, and he took another gout of dragon fire, this time to his face, when he was too slow in turning. The pain didn't come, this time. He couldn't see out of his right eye, and Glorendil vaguely recognized that as a problem, but it was one that could be dealt with later, if there was a later. His father had made him practice drills with both eyes covered, so fighting with one did not much slow him. 

At the last, only three elves remained standing. King Turgon, Sir Hasseron of the House of the Swallow, and Glorendil. Turgon had taken a lethal wound, and Glorendil's new goal - his only remaining goal - was to see his King's dying body to safety so that it was not defiled by the orcs, or taken as a prize to their master. With Hasseron following closely behind, it was now Glorendil's turn to half-carry his King as they fled swiftly up a staircase open to the cliffs beyond. Just another hundred yards, and they would reach a key stone which, if removed, would topple the tower, bringing their death and that of many enemies, who would then be unable to follow the other elves of Gondolin as they retreated. 

Glorendil didn't even see the eagle, at first. The clean breeze from its feathered wings hit his face, waking pain on his left cheek. It banked as Turgon spoke to it - him- and easily followed them the rest of the way to the keystone. Glorendil pulled the mighty stone lever to release the diamond-and-mithril rod at his King's command, but what Turgon commanded next, Glorendil could not do. 

"No! I will not leave you, Aranya." Glorendil cried. He loved his King like an uncle, and besides, he had sworn an oath to protect this elf, and Gondolin, unto his death. 

Turgon's expression grew firm even through his grimace of pain. "Nothing this side of the sea can save me, titta Arandilya. And you WILL go, for I command it. And you are my loyal retainer, are you not?" 

Glorendil was, yes, but he was also his father's son. "We all leave, or none of us leave." He said stubbornly, as the great tower began to groan and sway. 

"Nienna's tears, boy!" The King snapped, driven beyond patience. "I should have let your father spank you more often!" 

Glorendil had to grin, at that. Amusing 'Uncle Turgon,' often by inadvertently reminding the King of his father Glorfindel, had been a particularly successful way to get out of trouble with his father for all of his life. As recently as last week, in fact. 

Then Turgon nodded to Hasseron over Glorendil's head. A sharp pain to his temple, and the next thing Glorendil remembered was screaming in anguish, and Hasseron holding him still as the stars of Middle Earth shone above them. 

It took the burns over a decade to heal. Glorendil's father and mother, Glorfindel and Laureamoriel, were confirmed dead. So too were his Uncles, Siromo and Helyandur, and Helyandur's wife Lindanelle and their son, Glorendil's only cousin, Laurehandon. And his Aunt Lindanelle's older broher, Lord Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain. Glorendil had seen him fall. 

"Glorendil" died in Gondolin, or what was left of his youth did. He took the name Arandil, in honor of the service to the King that he and his beloved father had both shared. Arandil allowed it to be forgotten that the great Glorfindel of Gondolin had even had a son. For Glorfindel became a hero, in the wake of the Fall of Gondolin, and deservedly so, for slaying a balrog at the cost of his own life. Every elf on Middle Earth knew his name, and so did Men, and the Enemy. Arandil was proud of his father - had always been proud of his father - but in the wake of Glorfindel's unlikely success he felt more keenly the pain of his own failure, leaving Turgon behind. 

Arandil did not think he could bear to answer questions about his father from all of those people who had never known Glorfindel of Gondolin as anything other than a legend. Glorendil had always had to share Glorfindel, always had to struggle to make his own life in the shadow of his father's golden greatness. Scarred and shadowed and saddened, Arandil did not think that he could live that way any longer. Particularly not since Glorfindel had succeeded in securing the safety of Idril, Tuor, Earendil, and many other Gondolindrim, whereas Glorendil left Turgon to die, willingly or no. 

In time, Arandil married a pretty young apprentice healer, Elain, whose mother had carried the baby Princess Elwing safely away from the Kin-Slaying at Doriath. The patience Arandil had gained, in healing from the burns and learning a new trade, brought him to the attention of the young Aran Ereinion. So he became King's friend again, and served Ereinion Gil-galad, first as tutor to the young peredhil Elrond and Elros, then as soldier and diplomat. 

As the peace of the Second Age began, Arandil allowed himself to forget that he'd ever been Glorendil of the House of the Golden Flower. His sword lay in a chest with his wife's fine linens and then the outgrown baby clothes of their son, Erestor. Arandil went to Eregion to serve as Gil-galad's ambassador there, and his son befriended Celebrian, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn. When he was grown, Erestor traveled to Lindon and became the friend and retainer of Elrond Earendilion. 

Rumors made their way to Eregion in the year 1600 of the Second Age, whispers that Glorfindel of Gondolin had returned to Middle Earth, in the company of two Istari, Pallando and Alatar. But many strange rumors were finding their way to Eregion in those years, after Galadriel and Celeborn had left but before Celebrimbor realized that Annatar was Sauron the Deceiver. And not all of Gil-Galad's messengers made it safely to Gondolin. At the last, Gil-galad's request that Arandil and Elain leave Eregion for the safety of Lindon became an order. And it was then, at the end of that journey in Gil-galad's great sea-side palace, that Arandil first saw his father again. 

It was like dragonfire, at first. Nothing, at first, but shock and numbness. Then the joy came, and it was nothing like the dragon fire, for all his heart felt burned and scored. For he was in his father's arms, and Arandil was still Glorendil, with the claim to both the sorrows and the joys of that name. And with a full claim to his father's displeasure, when Glorfindel learned that his own son did not even know which linen chest his sword had been packed into!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is welcome if you are so inclined (who doesn't love reviews?). Either way, thanks for reading, I hope that you enjoyed it!


	8. Dragon's Breath II: Maedhros and Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the oldest sons of Feanor are afraid of something.

The sky over Amon-Ereb was gray. Hundreds of miles to the south and west, a war raged. On the one side, fought the the Valar, Men and Elves. On the other, Morgoth, his twisted creatures, and the men he'd won over by deceit, or by appeal to their own greed. 

But all was not peaceful here, even so far away from the battles. An elf - or what remained of him - lay slaughtered on the ground before them. Worse than slaughtered. 

"It was Lokemacil." Maglor's brother Maedhros noted, rising gracefully back to his feet. The elves with them were all hardened warriors, but none had braved the site of the kill save Maglor's brother and leader. The very air and ground itself seemed saturated with fear and horror. 

"He was going to find trouble of some kind." Maglor noted sadly. Lokemacil had been a friend of their youngest brothers, the twins Amrod and Amras, and had been inconsolably angry since their deaths over two decades ago. Maglor had been reluctant to have Lokemacil alone with Elros and Elrond, whilst Fingon's twin great-great nephews had stayed with them. Even after Elros told him not to worry about it, that Lokemacil would not, at the test, be an elf who would kill small children save in the heat of battle. How Elros knew that, Maglor had not cared to ask. 

Lokemacil had gone out hunting two nights ago, but he was one of several dozen of their people hunting or scouting away from the settlement. That Maedhros had been able to discern the identity of their fallen comrade when there was so little left of him was fortunate. At least Lokemacil's family would have some peace. 

A distant expression came over his brother's face. Not fear, not pain....but what would, perhaps, have been that, before. Before Thangorodrim, before the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Before Doriath and Sirion. Maglor forced himself to walk through the killing ground to stand at his brother's side. Gently, he reached out a hand to place it on Maedhros' shoulder. He knew better than to take his brother's only remaining hand. In a place like this, Maedhros the warrior would want his hands free to fight, just in case whatever-it-was returned. 

Maedhros came back to himself, and offered Maglor a nod. No one else could tell, but there was love and gratitude in that. Despite the pain and hopelessness of their situation, the brothers still had eachother. 

Maedhros' lips tightened, pain and anger and hurt pride. "Tyaromor." He ordered to one of their younger retainers, "And Finecarco," to another, one of their only remaining healers. "Ride with all speed for the River Sirion." 

There was a shocked silence for a moment. Maedhros had not even mentioned the war since Eonwe of the Valar and their half-uncle Finarfin declined their aid and ordered them to stay at Amon Ereb and await either death from Angband if the army lost, or judgement from the Valar if it didn't. Maglor couldn't even disagree with that, nor, he thought, could Maedhros, in his heart. But the desire to find the silmarils still burnt in their blood like a disease, overwhelming at times even their self-disgust and regret at the things they had done. The terrible things that they had done, yes, but they had done them well - if they were anything, it was great warriors. Even Maglor the harper. 

Yet, their one gift, their greatness in battle, had been declined by their kin, and there was nothing left for them but existence. They were not even worthy to fight the Enemy who had first corrupted their father and brought this upon them, the Enemy would destroy everything, whereas Maglor and Maedhros and their kin would bide in peace if they were just given their father's due. No one needed to have died. For them, it was an oath. On the side of their kin, only greed. Or so Maglor told himself. Sometimes it helped him sleep at night. The anger, at being refused the war, was real. 

"Are you sure, brother?" Maglor asked. 

"Yes." Maedhros nearly hissed. "Someone needs to warn them, that Morgoth has given the dragons wings." 

Maglor looked at the scene before them with new horror. He'd seen dragons, the great scaly creatures, moving swiftly over the ground on their deadly claws. And now they had wings....Lokemacil had not stood a chance. 

Dragons with wings... hurricanes of death from above. One of them could have killed a dozen of their warriors. A handful could have destroyed their settlement. Yes, their kin must be warned, no matter the bad blood between them. An elf did not leave anyone save an Enemy to that fate. 

But...."Brother, will they listen?" Maglor asked softly, quietly enough that their elves did not hear. 

"Finecarco, go to Master Healer Isyatur." Maedhros ordered, instead of answering. 

Maglor nodded. Isyatur's wife had been one of theirs. She'd died at Aqualonde, but he would still listen, for her sake. And he had been one of Finecarco's teachers, long ago. 

"Tyaromor, go to Artanis." Maedhros directed, after a moment of thought. 

Artanis- Galadriel- would probably listen. 

"Approach her when she is not with her Sindarin husband." Maglor thought to add. They had all fought together in the Union formed by Maedhros to conquer Angband, but that had been before Doriath and Sirion. Artanis would listen, because she wanted to destroy the enemy more than she wanted vengeance. Celeborn...Maglor did not know. And would not blame the royal lord, for killing one of them on sight. 

Tyaromor nodded. From the grim look on his face, and the white look on Finecarco's, Maglor thought it likely that they both knew they were riding into danger to deliver a warning to people who didn't even want their help. But they would do it. Maglor felt a moment of pride in their elves, and knew that Maedhros felt it too.


	9. Dragon's Breath III: Galadriel, Finarfin, and Celeborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes what you have to go through to get to fight the dragon is almost as bad as the beast itself.

Tears burned in her eyes as the fire ravaged the field before them. Bodies, armor, tents....even the river burned. For nothing. They had been halfway into herding the dragon within catapult range, before her father's elves broke their rank. Now the foul beast lived, and would attack them again. 

She had to keep her temper, though. No point in blame now. Wait for the council, wait to see what her father, the new King of the Noldor, would say. 

But the battle ended, the evening came and went. The council of generals and leaders met, and Finarfin made no apology. In fact, he dared to say that the day's failure was the fault of Ereinion, that the cavalry led by the young King's second-in-command (Galadriel herself, although her father didn't say so) had been 'insufficiently prepared and reinforced.' 

Young Gil-galad flushed. 

"That was the plan." Their uncle Cirdan pointed out gently. "Galadriel and her cavalry were to appear to give way, to lure the beast towards the improvised trebuchets." 

"It was more than appearance!" Finarfin replied. 

Galadriel dug her nails into her palms, trying to keep her temper. Everyone was staring at her, as if she were the weak one. She and her elves had been doing as they had been ordered. It was bad enough that she had to struggle to be good at something that honestly did not come easily to her. The independence and power of mastering weaponry had appealed to her for hundreds of years, and she had worked hard at it, but it was not something she was a natural at. She knew that Celeborn worried over her, and when they had traveled in earlier years and met with trouble, if he had told her to fall back, she had nearly always listened. 

But now, Celeborn was not speaking to her, because she had received Maedhros' messenger and protected him from what Celeborn felt was justified retribution on the part of their nephew Amdir and his elves. And now, she had not only to fight, and fight to be allowed to fight, but now she also had to deal with how her idiotic father responded to her fighting. And what he did, others would follow. And she had to respond. 

"I and mine fought well, and did not need your rescue, Aran Finarfin." She told her father, fighting to keep the tears of anger and self-pity and pure exhaustion out of her eyes and voice. Galadriel wanted nothing more than to retreat, and she did have wounded to check on. But the tactics for the next day's battle, and the next week's, must be decided upon. And she was unwilling to relinquish her place at the table, for fear it might not still be there, when she came back. 

A hand found one of hers under the table, strong fingers stroking her palm and soothing the cuts she had made with her fingernails as she fought for self-control. It was Celeborn's hand, and it meant that he was with her again, despite his anger. Galadriel took a deep breath and mastered herself. She could fight any dragon, as long as her husband was beside her.


	10. Dragon's Breath IV: Elros, Elrond and Celeborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, after you face the dragon, you still have to face your family. And sometimes, you just have to watch while someone you love fights a battle greater than you can aid with.

Elrond and Elros had to lean on eachother to stay on their feet as they dismounted, so tired and shaken were they. 

Elrond was more than a little surprised to still be alive. They'd fought a dragon to a stand-still, giving the archers with the specially-made arrows time to come and kill it. Even after their commander and his second had both died - and oh, how that hurt if Elrond let himself think about it - they had still held their own against a dragon. 

He only had a moment to think about that, before Arandil and Elboron and half of their guards and unit were clustering around them, slapping them on the back and embracing them. Elrond laughed, and threw an arm around his human cousin Belemir, reflecting to himself that this was the first time he could remember laughing in, well, months. 

That particular blue-scaled beast had killed so many of their friends, and today, it was dead. They had done it together, but Elros had led them. Haldor's death should have meant a fall-back, but the chain-of-command had been unclear. Elros had called for Elrond and Elboron to distract the beast, and then for the others to all release their arrows at its right eye. For a dragon, it had big, bulbous eyes. Well, had had them. Elros had called the orders on his horn, and Elrond had moved instantly in response, because that was how it was, with them. Elboron followed Elrond - their Nandorin guard had a bit of resistance to the dragons, too, much as did the twins. Arandil did not quail, and his courage helped the rest of the unit to hold together, even in the face of dragon fire. No other human, or mixed human-elven unit, had done as much. 

The celebration lasted until Uncle Celeborn arrived. Well, General Celeborn, and they'd been acting against the standing order to fall back after suffering casualties of that magnitude in their chain of command. They weren't in Celeborn's army of the remaining Sindar and volunteer Nandor. They fought under Belemir's father in the army of their human kin, and he wasn't here. But Celeborn was. 

"Lieutenants. A word." Celeborn said to Elrond and Elros and just-past-teenaged Belemir. Arandil stood stalwartly beside them, until Celeborn dismissed him. Elboron had, of course, already disappeared. Elrond really wanted to know what prank Elboron had played on Celeborn, or around Celeborn, at the beginning of the war, to make him so terrified of their uncle, who was actually a very kind elf with a fairly good sense of humor. 

That very nice elf gave them a disappointed, frustrated glare that shook Elrond to his core. 

"What were you thinking?" Celeborn asked them, quiet but for all that very, very intimidating. 

Elros stirred beside him, and Elrond felt a gathering storm in the link he shared with his twin. Trying to calm Elros down right now would do nothing but make him more upset. Elrond took a deep breath, and prepared to just hold on for the ride. Just like fighting a dragon, only Celeborn wouldn't eat them or burn them to death. Well, only their backsides. Elond sighed internally. 

"It worked, didn't it?" Elros asked, cocky as a barnyard rooster, and just as unashamed. Belemir, behind them, muttered some obviously false excuse about having to report to his father, and hurried away. 

Celeborn's jaw clenched, and his face grew if anything whiter. "You got lucky, you should have retreated!" 

Elrond's gray eyes widened. He'd rarely ever heard their uncle even raise his voice. 

"If you were in charge, we'd still be on the other side of the river!" Elros snapped back. Elrond winced, and moved to intervene. 

With one arm he grabbed his twin's vambrace, the other hand he placed gently before his uncle. "Calm down, please. Please, brother. Please Uncle." Elrond pleaded. 

Celeborn took a deep breath, and a step back. "Go peel potatoes, Elros." He ordered. 

Elros just glared at him. Elrond would have kicked his brother, but they were both wearing full armor so it wouldn't have worked well. 

"Potatoes, Lieutenant!" Celeborn said more sharply. 

Either the repetition or the reminder of military discipline finally got through to Elrond's idiotic, brave brother. "Yes, Sir!" Elros said, all precision now as he went to obey. 

Elrond wasn't sure, but Celeborn might have sighed, just ever so slightly, in relief. "Very good," he said to Elros more warmly, "And nephew...." 

It was Elros' turn to sigh. A bit defeated, and overwhelmed, as if he'd just realized everything they'd done, and risked, today, and how rude and confrontational he had been to an uncle they both loved, who was also a superior officer they both respected. 

"Yes, Sir?

"Report to my tent after you are finished. Directly, nephew." 

"Ye...yes, Uncle." Elros agreed softly. 

Elrond went to follow after his brother, only to be brought up short by a shake of his uncle's head. 

Celeborn waited until just after Elros was out of earshot, before ordering, "Not you, Elrond. Come with me, now."

"But...the potatoes! The wounded!" Elrond protested, as he'd been planning to detour by the potatoes and promise to come back later before going to help at the healing tents as he normally did after a battle. They always needed any extra hands, let alone a semi-trained assistant healer's. 

"Yes, the wounded." Celeborn agreed, voice very soft, as he reached out to gently manipulate Elrond's elbow. Blood flowed sluggishly between the plates of armor meeting at the joint. 

"Oh!" Elrond exclaimed softly, just staring at it. 

"I take it that you do not remember when this happened to you?" 

Elrond shook his head numbly, knowing what that meant. Celeborn took him to the healers. The wound was actually not bad at all, and appeared clean. From what they could tell, it had been a friendly arrow that had clipped Elrond on its way to the dragon. 

"Can we not tell Elros about this?" Elrond asked hopefully, as he followed Celeborn into his tent. 

Celeborn's blue eyes regarded him, fond and exasperated and tired, and even a bit amused. "Yes, because not telling your very observant twin about something that will upset him greatly, and then letting him find out on his own, always works so well." 

Elrond winced. That Elrond had gotten hurt was going to make Elros angry, at himself for having led the charge, and at Elrond for having...not gotten out of the way. Or something. 

"You did well, nephew." Celeborn said, handing him a canteen with water. Cold water, with mint. Elrond drank greedily, until he remembered his manners. He offered the canteen back with a blush. 

"No, you may finish." Celeborn told him, stripping off his own armor. 

Elrond did. Then he sat down beside his uncle on Celeborn's cot, prepared for a lecture, and probably a spanking as well unless he was very, very lucky. Yes, Elros had given the commands, but Elrond had followed them without thinking. 

"I did well, but...." Elrond prompted, wanting to get the inevitable lecture over with. 

Celeborn sighed. "Elrond, you lack the experience to know how to get out of the way fast enough when the dragon-archers loose their arrows. Haldor and his second were the only ones out of your unit who had practiced with them. That is WHY the plan was for you to fall back. You are more than just Elros's shadow. I need you to think for yourself, and use good sense, even if he is not." 

"Yes, sir." Elrond said, looking down at his bandaged arm and calloused hands, tears pricking at his eyes. 

"Ai, Elrond." Celeborn said, before pulling Elrond into his arms. Elrond rested his head on the soft green fabric of his Uncle's tunic, breathing in the reassuring smell of nutmeg and moss under the smoke and sweat of the battle. After Sirion, they had been in Celeborn and Galadriel's home on Balar nearly as often as Uncle Cirdan's. Celeborn had always been kind, always treated them like children but never like infants. It was a sad thing, in Elrond's opinion, that Celeborn didn't have elflings of his own. Or maybe not so much, right now. Growing up during a war was hard. 

Celeborn's hand stroked his back. "I know that you are doing your best, beloved nephew, and that you lost more today. I know. You are brave and good and kind, and I only wish that I could send you home." 

"I know." Elrond said, his voice muffled against Celeborn's chest. "Elros and I have decided not to be offended by that, from you, because you just wish that Aunt Galadriel would go home, too." 

Celeborn paused, then pressed a kiss against the top of Elrond's head. "That, nephew mine, is none of your affair." He pushed Elrond gently off of him, enough to lift up Elrond's chin with a cupped palm. "Now, there is the matter of consequences." 

Elrond winced. 

Celeborn regarded him steadily, but not without sympathy. "You and Elros have been promoted quickly through the ranks of your human kin. Their lives are shorter than ours, so the experience that you have gained in these last few years is proportionally more valuable to them. But it does not leave you exempt from following orders, and your failure to do so today could have cost you - and all of us - far more than a scratch." Celeborn gestured towards the cut on Elrond's arm, which had been carefully washed, stitched and bandaged. Elrond's fellow healers had also given him a draught for pain, so any punishment he got now would actually hurt less than it normally would. 

"I can leave the matter to your General, as you are under his command, or I can take care of it." Celeborn told him. 

"You, please, Uncle." Answered Elrond, without needing time to think about it. He didn't know this new General very well, and military discipline still intimidated him. He hoped that Celeborn might go easy on him, although past precedent suggested otherwise. Ereinion and Cirdan sometimes did, because Elrond didn't mouth off like Elros, but Celeborn managed to do a better job of treating the twins evenly. Elrond actually liked that. Well, not right now, as Celeborn got out THAT hairbrush. 

It was quite a thing to go from fighting a dragon in the morning to being bare-bottomed over your Uncle's lap getting a sound spanking in the afternoon. Elrond gasped as the sharp swats moved to the tender undercurve of his bottom, knowing that this part was just a warm-up. At least Celeborn was curving his hand outwards, so that the smacks were fairly quiet. Privacy in a war-camp was not in great supply, but casual passers-by wouldn't overhear. 

All of those thoughts flew out of Elrond's head when Celeborn's hand stopped, and rested for a moment on his lower back. 

"Ready?" Celeborn asked. 

'Why did anyone even ask that?' Elrond wondered to himself. He didn't ask aloud, although Elros might have. He just nodded, bracing himself and curling his uninjured arm around his face. 

"Over soon, Elrond." Celeborn promised, as he rested the cool panel of the brush on Elrond's left bottom cheek. Elrond had another half-second to prepare himself before the hard wood snapped down, leaving an oval of stinging pain that took Elrond's breath away. 

"Ah..ow!" He exclaimed, trying to be quiet, as the brush landed a third and fourth time. Elrond hated hair brushes. A switch stung, and a paddle thudded, and a strap, on the balance, was the worst that Elrond had experienced, but inch for inch, a brush was a hot, immediate burn, like....like being in the wash of dragon fire. 

A few more swats to his buttocks, and then the brush moved to his sit-spots. Elrond stifled a cry, and kicked his lower legs, trying to stand the pain without being loud. The brush was quiet, at least, he thought irrelevantly. Then Celeborn applied a second round of smacks to his sensitive undercurves, and Elrond could do nothing but try to bear it and fervently whimper, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry...please, Uncle, please enough I'll obey the battle plan next time!" 

Blessedly, Celeborn put the brush aside. Elrond took deep, teary breaths for a few moments while Celeborn stroked his back soothingly. 

"I do wish that I could believe that you will be more careful in the future, Elrond." Celeborn told him, after Elrond had righted his clothes and been helped to lie down on Celeborn's cot. 

Elrond rubbed at his face, and wondered why if Celeborn didn't think he would be more careful, his Uncle had bothered to do such a thorough job of reddening his rear. 

"I bother," Celeborn corrected gently, raising one silver eyebrow and then shaking his head as Elrond blushed and realized that he had spoken aloud, "Because you are worth the bother. And because I live in hope." Celeborn said more after that, but Elrond was tired enough that he didn't really remember what it was. He must have been very tired indeed, because he didn't wake up until morning. Elros was curled around him, dried tears on his face. Celeborn was getting up from another cot that must have been brought into the tent while Elrond slept. Brombellas, Celeborn's guard and friend, was handing out earthenware mugs of strong tea. 

Elrond shook Elros awake and accepted a cup gratefully. 

"Herald Eonwe and Aran Finarfin have called a council." Celeborn told them, while handing a clean towel and basin of water to Elros, "The enemy has started a new offensive to the north, trying to ford the river again to cut off our advance." 

"Valar-be-cursed dragons." Elros muttered, scrubbing his face. "Without them as a distraction, that wouldn't work at all." 

Celeborn smiled fiercely as he led them towards the meeting. "It's not going to work, even with dragons." Hiding a smile, their Uncle asked Elros, "Unless you still think that I would like to let us fall back to the other side of the river, of course, Elros?" 

"Erm...No, Sir." Elros answered, shame-faced. Elrond tried to hide a smile of his own. Not well enough. Elros punched him in the shoulder. 

"It is not too late for me to remind Ereinion of your heroism before the council, Elros...." Celeborn warned. 

"No, no." Assured Elros, backing off. Elrond grinned, and promised silently that there were no hard feelings. Without words, Elros apologized for him getting hurt yesterday. Celeborn let them converse in their own way, and didn't say anything about the blue dragon to Ereinion or Cirdan until after the meeting. Celeborn was decent, like that. 

The blue dragon was the first that Elrond and Elros fought, but not the last. They became some of the army's dragon specialists, much to their uncles' and cousins' dismay. The twins did not need to speak to communicate tactics, and Arandil and Elboron could follow them almost as fluently as if they, too, could hear voices in their heads. That became a nearly priceless asset, since the dragons learned to understand speech, and then to talk themselves. As long as Elrond lived, he would never forget the experience of having a dragon explain how it was going to flay you and then eat you, as it tried to do exactly that. 

The best way to kill dragons, though, was to have someone sneak through the lines and poison their food supply. Some of the human farmers they bought food from thought of that, and the human generals agreed to try it. The next best thing to weaken them, was to use vials of gas to blind their vision and confuse their senses as you attacked. 

Then came the great final battle, and the giant dragon Ancalagon the Black, whose wings blotted out the sun. Their father Earendil fought him, high above them in the air. Earendil summoned great aid, and defeated the beast. Then Ancalagon fell and broke the world. 

The twins sat together, in the wreckage, once the fighting was over, and after the healers had sent Elrond away for being too tired to help anymore. 

"We last saw our father when we were only six years old. He sailed away and didn't come back." Elrond told Elboron, who had come to sit with them. 

"All part of 'the fun of being the Peredhil,'" Elboron joked, quoting the twins' words from when they had first met right back at them. 

The unexpected levity shook a laugh from Elros, whose own sense of humor tended to the irreverent. 

Grinning at having successfully lightened the mood, Elboron continued, "And perhaps you should have waved at the sky and shouted, 'Hi, Da, thanks for killing the big, ugly dragon?' Only proper to thank him, I'd think. It's not many boys whose fathers sail away and then return to kill them a war-ending dragon." 

The twins exchanged an amused glance. "It would be 'Hi, Atto.'" Elrond pointed out levelly, also distracted from his grief, "He spoke Quenya, with us, mostly. And the language of men. Nana - Elwing- spoke Sindarin. So we learned all of the languages of our family." 

"Sounds confusing, that does." Commented Elboron. Before either twin could reply, their volunteer Nandorin guard mumbled a quick farewell and faded away. 

"He's very good at that." Elrond noted. 

"And here comes Uncle Celeborn, like clockwork." Said Elros. 

This time, the expression on their Uncle's face finally gave the twins the support they needed to mourn losing their father again. He opened his arms, and they ran to him. 

"I love you like my own." Celeborn said fiercely, pressing a kiss to first Elros' dark hair and then Elrond's. "I do, and my lady does, and Cirdan and Ereinion do, as well. Many others love you, too. You are not alone, my beloved nephews." 

It wasn't having their father back, but it helped. Earendil saved their lives by slaying the great dragon. He had saved all of Middle Earth, in fact. But Celeborn - and Cirdan and Ereinion and sometimes Galadriel and for a short time even the oldest two sons of Feanor- had been there to comfort and guide them, and the twins could never forget that.


	11. The Golden and Ebony Flowers of Gondolin, Chapter 1 of 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: There is no one in this world whom Arandil enjoys irritating more than his own father, the great Lord Glorfindel. In fact, it’s always been this way. 
> 
> This is a story of the relationship between son and father, from Gondolin to Lindon to Imladris, and some places in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: This story was written in response to a request from Lela for a story about Glorfindel and his son Arandil. In the “present” it is a cut-scene of sorts from “Consequences,” which I wrote as a request for Holly. That story can be found as chapters in “Tales of the Elves of Imladris,” on AO3, at this link:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/227554/chapters/6976310
> 
> The “present” is about spring of Third Age (T.A.) 169. Flashbacks are to Arandil’s childhood in Gondolin, and to his time as a young adult in Sirion and on the Isle of Balar, after the Fall of Gondolin. An earlier story about Arandil during the Fall of Gondolin, “Dragon’s Fire,” can be found in “Tales of the First Age,” here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/214270/chapters/2328584
> 
> Additional short stories about Glorfindel’s wife and their early courtship can be found in “Tales from Before the Sun Rose,” here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/235157/chapters/6042512
> 
> Additional interaction between Glorfindel and Arandil can be found in this chapter of “Schadenfreude.” 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/476361/chapters/841458
> 
> Quote: 
> 
> "Whether they love you or hate you, no one will ever forget the golden and ebony flowers of Gondolin." – spoken by Captain Lumbacundo, in “Dragon’s Fire.”
> 
> Excerpts from “Consequences”
> 
> Erestor’s father shared yet another reminisce of Arandil’s own elflinghood, in which his overly strict and less-than-perceptive father featured in poor light. Little did Arandil know that everyone present was now aware that the father in question was Glorfindel, and from the twinkle in the Balrog-slayer’s eyes, he was waiting for the most opportune – or inopportune – moment to let his son know.
> 
> ….
> 
> The inevitable finally happened, and Arandil set out running with Glorfindel in close pursuit.

It was not in Arandil’s nature to admit to defeat, but when one is running from one of Middle Earth’s finest soldiers while still in relatively poor physical condition, one has only so many options. He’d managed to evade his father’s initial pursuit by darting into the garden, and then slipping through the window back into Erestor’s office. Clever, but it wouldn’t confuse Glorfindel for long. 

Arandil did have to admit to himself that Glorfindel did have just cause for grievance,. In only the few days since Arandil and his wife and their companions had arrived in Imladris, he’d likened his father to a donkey and a rhinoceros in heat, and cast numerous aspersions upon Glorfindel’s judgement and intelligence. A certain amount of baiting was to be expected, had in fact always been part of their relationship, but Arandil had taken advantage of the anonymity to an unfair degree. In part, it had been a ploy to convince his father to admit the truth of their relationship to the youngest generation – a clearly successful ploy- but in part it was just that Arandil liked twisting his father’s tail.

He did not particularly like dealing with Glorfindel’s temper once he had pushed the redoubtable warrior too far, but that was part of the game, and Arandil had never been afraid to face up to consequences. He’d talk his way out of them if he could, but fear was not something that Elrond’s ambassador allowed to sway his actions. 

Still, Arandil was a realist. This was a contest he couldn’t think of a way to win. He might as well concede in an unexpected manner, preferably one which would deprive his father of bragging rights.

With that goal in mind, Arandil let himself into his father’s spacious rooms, preemptively conceding defeat in hopes of a negotiated surrender. The spring night was cool, and a fire burned in the marble hearth. The leaping flames illuminated tapestries and works of art heavily dominated by Glorfindel’s house colors of gold and green.

A small table and several chairs were arrayed before the fireplace. On the table sat a beaded pewter pitcher and two goblets. With a curious sniff, Arandil identified the contents of the pitcher as iced miruvor, infused with peppermint and other healing herbs. Glorfindel was a soldier, yes, but he was also a student of how one best prepared the body for battle, and replenished it afterward. This was likely the latest in his millennia-long study of how to make the perfect healing drink. 

Arandil’s body still ached from his recent capture and subsequent torture in the south. He and his wife Elain, and their support staff, had gone to meet with former hidden Elendili amongst the Haradrim descendants of Numenoreans who had emigrated to the south and survived the War of the Last Alliance. Keeping lines of trade and communication open amongst their recently defeated enemies would be a valuable coup, if they could manage it. But it was not without its hazards. Even knowing that it might well have been a trap, Arandil had accompanied several of his contacts alone to a meeting place of their choice, a traveling carnival. It had been a trap, and Elrond’s emissary had spent most of the next week being beaten to a pulp as his ostensible allies tried to extract information about the elf-lord of Imladris.

They had not been successful. And Arandil had made a friend out of one of their servants, a man who happened to be a spy for one of the old Numenorean families that actually did want to stay in touch with their Faithful kindred. The servant had helped Arandil to escape, and the elven lord had recuperated at the home of his new allies. He’d also purchased the carnival, pensioned off most of the men, and brought the animals back to Imladris with him.

His capture had been far from an ideal situation, but matters had worked out in a satisfactory manner. Arandil and Elain had a new list of Things Not To Do While Traveling in the South, but the experience paled in comparison to the unrelenting terror and creeping despair of their last years in Eregion.

Glorfindel didn’t see it that way, and predictably, he blamed his son. Words like “reckless,” “foolish,” and “obstinate” had been thrown about, as soon as Glorfindel got Arandil in private after their arrival in Imladris. Arandil had mostly let his father lecture – there was no point in even trying to talk to Glorfindel when he was in that sort of a mood, unless the purpose was to further enrage him. But Arandil hadn’t been able to stop pointing out, rather sharply, that if he’d fought once he realized it was a trap, he would have ruined his opportunity to salvage something out of the situation.

Oh, Glorfindel did have a point about going to the meeting in the first place – much as Arandil hated to admit that his father might be right about anything they’d disagreed about – but once that was done, Arandil couldn’t see that he’d made any mistakes. He’d sensed the sympathies of the Beys’ servants. His refusal to curse his captors and waste his effort in fighting them when he was unlikely to be successful had won him admiration and allies. Sometimes, the right thing to do was to wait for your moment. Glorfindel understood that, Arandil knew that he did, but he didn’t seem to understand that Arandil’s work was worth doing. At the very least, he hadn’t been minded to listen to Arandil at the time.

Arandil scowled and rubbed his backside in memory of the lecture and the hiding he’d received from his father. So much for, ‘How lovely to see you again, Arandil!’ Or even Glorfindel’s normal gripe about how his son was never in one place for very long, followed by a husky, ‘It’s good to see you again, boy.’

Unfortunately, Arandil probably had more of the same to look forward to after baiting his father for the past several days since his arrival. Oh, he probably wouldn’t have taken it so far if Glorfindel hadn’t been such in a towering fury when he first arrived, but that wasn’t really an excuse.

All of that in mind, Arandil decided to pour a goblet of miruvor and gulp it down. The pain-killing properties took effect almost immediately, soothing out the old aches from his time down South that hadn’t had time to entirely heal. The miruvor would probably also dull the discomfort from the strapping his father was like to give him, and had likely been intended to be imbibed AFTER that unfortunate event. Since baiting Glorfindel was both a sport form and a high art to Arandil, that didn’t bother him.

Let his father be annoyed. Glorfindel probably already was. After all, Arandil wondered with a proud smirk, who knew how long it would take Glorfindel to figure out that Arandil had decided to cut their chase short by just coming to Glorfindel’s room and waiting for the opportunity to negotiate surrender terms?

Arandil sat down in one of the comfortable chairs by the fire to wait. The flames leaping over the golden and green furnishings and the singing of Imladris’ waterfalls soothed him, reminding him of his childhood in Gondolin. Arandil slipped onto the path of dreams, becoming lost in old memories.


	12. The Golden and Ebony Flowers of Gondolin - Chapter 2 - A Handsome Elfling (Or, Little Cave-cat)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen, and his voice like music; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength."  
> ― The Fellowship of the Ring, Many Meetings
> 
> "...Then did the throng return within the gates and the wanderers with them, and Tuor saw they were of iron and of great height and strength. Now the streets of Gondolin were paved with stone and wide, kerbed with marble, and fair houses and courts amid gardens of bright flowers were set about the ways, and many towers of great slenderness and beauty builded of white marble and carved most marvellously rose to the heaven. Squares there were lit with fountains and the home of birds that sang amid the branches of their aged trees, but of all these the greatest was that place where stood the king's palace, and the tower thereof was the loftiest in the city, and the fountains that played before the doors shot twenty fathoms and seven in the air and fell in a singing rain of crystal: therein did the sun glitter splendidly by day, and the moon most magically shimmered by night. The birds that dwelt there were of the whiteness of snow and their voices sweeter than a lullaby of music. On either side of the doors of the palace were two trees, one that bore blossom of gold and the other of silver, nor did they ever fade, for they were shoots of old from the glorious Trees of Valinor that lit those places before Melko and Gloomweaver withered them: and those trees the Gondolindrim named Glingol and Bansil..."  
> ― Fall of Gondolin (Houghton Mifflin version page 160)

Multicolored lights from giant lanterns embedded into the walls played over the white cloth of the breakfast table in King Turgon’s Great Hall in the heart of the hidden city of Gondolin. Glorindel, only son and heir of the heroic Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, watched the lights, and the jewel-colored lizards scampering around the rafters and columns of the rock-hewn amphitheater. A ring of lanterns high near the top of the rounded ceiling illuminated panels enameled and painted to resemble the sky at mid-morning. Giant gears turned the scenery, so that the ceiling would reflect in turn reflect noon, afternoon, twilight, night time, and dawn, just as it would if they were Outside.

Glorindel, who thought of himself as Arandil, loved the Outside. The young elfling, no more than the equivalent of a human five years of age, didn’t get to go Outside often enough, in his opinion. Not even to the hidden valley of Tumladen, inside the encircling protective walls of Gondolin. It was dangerous, beyond those walls. But exciting! Arandil had been born Outside, because he had come a whole month early and his mother, Laureamoriel, had wanted to hear the wild songbirds sing one more time before she was confined to the city in anticipation of Arandil’s birth. That was how he had gotten his mother’s nickname for him, little songbird.

A relatively gentle kick to his knee started the elfling out of his thoughts. He looked up to see his father staring at him. Glorfindel narrowed his eyes, and nodded towards Arandil’s practically untouched plate. Arandil scowled back at him. The elfling generally tried not to sit within kicking distance of his father at meal times, but he had been paying attention to the shining ceiling and the cavorting lizards rather than to breakfast table seating strategy. And almost across from Father had meant next to Uncle Ecthelion, which was a nice thing. Uncle Ecthelion was busy, just like Father and every other adult elf of Arandil’s acquaintance. Getting to see them and sit next to them and have Uncle Ecthelion cut up his sour fruit and eggs was a treat. Even if Arandil wasn’t hungry. Uncle-the-King Turgon, who wasn’t really Arandil’s uncle but had given him his favorite nickname, “Arandil,” which meant King’s Friend, had given Arandil a cream-filled bun at the start of breakfast. Cream-filled pastries were Arandil’s very favorite, and the elfling was completely stuffed from the sweetmeat.

But Father was giving him one of THOSE looks, which meant that Arandil had better start to at least look like he was eating. Arandil took a reluctant bite of sour fruit and sweet leaves. He pushed the pieces of egg around on his plate, making them into a drawing of the wall encircling Gondolin. The sweet leaves became the Hidden Valley, and the chunks of sour fruit the city itself. He made the tallest two pieces of sour fruit into the King’s Tower, which sat adjacent to the Great Hall, amidst singing fountains. Arandil’s cobalt colored eyes went to his full cup of milk. He wondered if anyone would notice if he poured some of the drink onto his plate, so that it could be the fountains in his grand breakfast art.

Some reconnaissance would be necessary before taking such a step, the well-dressed elfling decided. He looked up through his long eyelashes at his father. Glorfindel was frowning, but not at Arandil. He wasn’t paying any attention at all to his son, which was just typical. Arandil didn’t like it. He loved his father. Time spent with Glorfindel was usually Arandil’s favorite part of the week. His father was fun and funny and always knew how to make Arandil laugh. Unless he was in a Poor Mood Because of His Duties. Then Glorfindel was little fun to be around, at all. Arandil had to irritate his father just to get Glorfindel’s attention, and then keep irritating him just the right amount until annoyance and anger turned into amusement. It was a delicate calculation, and Arandil sometimes wound up with corner time and a spanking instead of the games and cuddles that he was searching for, but he had to do something otherwise he’d never get any of his father’s time and attention.

Much later in his life, Arandil would understand the tension between his father and Turgon’s other noble councilors. He would understand that while the King and Lord Ecthelion were Glorfindel’s friends, and Lords Rog and Galdor respected his father, Glorfindel still found it difficult to be taken seriously amongst his fellows. Glorfindel was the only one amongst them to have been born a commoner, and many were jealous of Glorfindel’s military prowess, and of his place in the affections of the King and the people of Gondolin.

When Arandil became older, an advisor to King Ecthelion and a father himself, he grew to realize and appreciate how nothing about being a Lord except for the military requirements had come easily to his father, and how hard Glorfindel had worked to make up for that. But, at the age of twelve, the equivalent of a human's five years of age, Arandil only understood that he didn't get to see his father anywhere near as much as he would have liked, and that Father was often busy and snappish, even when he did have time for Arandil. 

Even as young as he was that long ago day in Turgon’s great hall, Arandil understood that his father frequently argued with the other Lords and sometimes got into trouble for it. He’d walked in on some of the arguments between his father and Uncle Turgon, or between his father and Uncle Ecthelion, or sometimes between all three. And that morning, things were becoming heated. Arandil didn’t understand that much of it – something about whether to spend money on improvements within the city or on military patrols, and something about a steel gate.

The steel gate seemed to be Lord Maeglin’s idea. Maeglin was Uncle Turgon’s nephew, and frequently treated as his heir. Arandil’s father didn’t like that. He always said that Uncle Turgon’s heir was Cousin Idril, even though she was an elleth. Arandil’s mother and Uncle Ecthelion agreed, but Princess Lalwen and her husband Lord Egalmoth did not. They thought that only a male heir could rule Gondolin, if Uncle Turgon were to fall in battle. They also thought that should never happen, because King Turgon shouldn’t ride out of Gondolin to fight any battles himself.

Arandil didn’t know why, but Lord Maeglin really didn’t like Arandil. He always pretended to look over Arandil’s head and not see him, or if he had to see him, he sneered and acted as if Arandil was an erring animal. Arandil didn’t like Maeglin. Part of him wanted to ignore the ellon in turn, part of him wanted to make Maeglin look foolish as Maeglin so often tried to make Arandil look foolish, and part of him wanted to try to win Maeglin over. Arandil liked a challenge. As of that day in the King’s hall, he hadn’t decided what to do about Maeglin, so he just smiled politely when their eyes met and otherwise paid no attention to the Lord. It wasn’t noticeably rude – it wasn’t as if Maeglin or anyone else were asking Arandil’s opinion about steel gates.

“It won’t matter how beautifully the fountains sing, if the enemy patrols come close enough to see the gates without being slaughtered and relocated!” Yelled Arandil’s father at Uncle Ecthelion.

“Honestly, Glorfindel, it’s not as if that has ever happened in the hundreds of years we’ve been here!” Ecthelion protested.

“Perhaps we could just agree to install Lord Maeglin’s great steel gate,” said slimy Lord Salagant, “And return to the question of other expenditures at another time.”

“The gate could keep us safe, Uncle,” Said Maeglin fiercely, “But I would need steel from beyond the hidden valley to complete it.”

Arandil’s father and Lord Rog exchanged an incredulous look, and Lord Galdor seemed horrified. But of course it was Arandil’s father who spoke up, because it always was.

“Cursed fires of Angband, Maeglin!” Exclaimed Glorfindel, “Why don’t we just run back and forth on the plains and shout our location to the enemy?”

The King coughed and gave Arandil’s father a disappointed look.

“Lord Glorfindel speaks hotly, but he does have a point.” Began Lord Galdor, followed by Lord Rog.

Glorfindel had been abashed by King Turgon’s silent scold, but only for a few moments. Then his temper started to boil again, and he looked likely to say something even more undiplomatic.

Arandil decided that it was time to do something. He coughed to get his father’s attention, and then pretended to almost spill his milk. Glorfindel’s deep blue eyes flew open in surprise, then narrowed in disapproval.

Arandil couldn’t entirely hide a pleased smirk. He had his father’s attention, and Glorfindel was distracted from yelling at his fellow lords. Arandil repeated his action, reaching for the mug of milk and ‘accidentally’ nearly tipping it over again, all the while meeting his father’s eyes. It was a very fun game, and absorbed Arandil for almost fifteen minutes before his father decided that Arandil probably wasn’t actually going to spill the milk and turned his attention back to what he was actually supposed to be doing. Arandil’s father really wasn’t very sensible at times. Arandil’s mother would have figured out what was going on and decided to ignore it almost immediately. Of course, Arandil’s mother would have brought a book for him, or let him have some parchment and paints to play with.

His game over, and no further entertainment presenting itself, Arandil signed disconsolately. King Turgon looked over at his smallest breakfast guest. With a wink and a smile, he suggested that perhaps young Lord Laurehandon, Arandil’s cousin, should take the even younger Arandil out to play in the garden instead of listening to their stuffy meeting. Arandil thought that was an excellent idea, and fortunately his father gave his blessing. Glorfindel probably wasn’t eager to figure out what other games Arandil might think up to amuse himself.

Laurehandon was another of Arandil’s favorite elves. He was only four decades older than Arandil, and had only just reached his majority. If they were humans, Laurehandon would be accounted perhaps only fifteen years older than Arandil. Laurehandon was gentle and good. He preferred sketching and painting to learning skills of arms, and could most often be found with the architects and engineers with whom he was apprenticing. Either there or with his parents and uncles, of whom he was very fond.

Laurehandon played with Arandil in the courtyards amongst the singing, soaring fountains for several hours. Then he was distracted by something about the angle between the encircling mountains and the tower and city walls, something about how mirrors could be used to blind approaching enemies. Laurehandon pulled parchment and a quill out of a pocket in his robes, and laid down on the courtyard flagstones to start drawing out mathematical formulas. Arandil sighed, realizing that he’d lost his playmate. Then he brightened, because now he was free to engage in one of his very favorite activities of all – lizard chasing!

The jewel-colored lizards were protected from being killed and eaten by King Turgon’s own edict. They ate bugs and other pests that would eat away at Gondolin’s granaries and storehouses if left unchecked, and they were beautiful. King Turgon called them an ornament to the city, and Arandil quite agreed. He’d won over the regard of three already, by chasing them, offering them food, and not giving up. They slept on his bed now, along with his two cats and one puppy. Arandil loved animals.

Arandil had to be careful, for he’d gotten into trouble for chasing lizards before. Not because he’d hurt the lizards, he knew better than that, but because he wasn’t allowed to chase them out of the palace and into the city, or up the fluted columns and across the beams under the ceiling. He’d gotten into a lot of trouble for that last, actually, even though he’d known exactly what he was doing and hadn’t been scared at all until Father got scared and yelled at him. Father had helped get him down, then had taken him home and spanked him. Even Uncle Turgon had scolded him, instead of interceding on Arandil’s behalf like he normally did. So, no more chasing the lizards up the columns, which just meant that Arandil had to chase them at such an angle that they didn’t think to go out the palace doors or up the columns. It was a challenge, but Arandil liked a challenge. And there was a lizard with a special purple frill that Arandil really wanted to get to feed and pet.

He waited until his cousin Laurehandon was particularly absorbed at his work, mumbling under his breath about mirrors and the height of the fountains. Then Arandil looked about, saw a hurrying kitchen maid, and attached himself to her wake. Someone seeing him would most likely think that he had asked for a snack and was being taken to the kitchens. It was never a good idea, if one was going to go lizard chasing without permission, to be thought to be unaccompanied by any adult. Arandil followed in the wake of the kitchen maid until he reached the now abandoned great hall. The lizard with the purple frill was sleeping before the largest hearth. Unfortunately, the hearth was in the process of being cleaned by several ellith and a tall ellon.

Arandil straightened his shoulders, stood up as tall as he could, and then walked over. He knew almost exactly how attractive and charming an elfling he was. He’d heard his aunt Lindanelle say so, once, when he and his father had been arguing. Lindanelle said that if Glorfindel was the golden flower of Gondolin, then Arandil was the little ebony flower of Gondolin. Now a lot of people called him that, and knew who he was and that he basically had the run of the palace, provided that someone knew where he was. Which, technically, no one did right now, but the ellith and the ellon cleaning the hearth didn’t know that. Arandil convinced them that he’d been given permission to play with the lizards in the great hall. They believed him. 

He sat quietly by the lizard with the purple frill until the staff had finished cleaning the hearth and moved on. Then, very slowly, Arandil took some leftover egg from breakfast and put it near the lizard. He chirruped to the lizard, making the same sound they made to tell one another when they’d found food. The lizard woke up and looked at Arandil skeptically. Then it got to its feet, and started to quickly walk away. The chase was on!

Arandil followed, waiting for the lizard to start running before he started running. He ran to the left as they went by the different outer gates so that the lizard wouldn’t try to go that way, then he swung wide right whenever they went by columns that led up to the ceiling. They ran through the great hall and down corridors, in and out of receiving rooms and up into the King’s private living areas. The lizard looked to be tiring, but not before it ran into King Turgon’s private dining room. The lizard climbed up onto the table, then chirped with surprise as it went sliding into a pile of playing cards and money. 

King Turgon, Uncle Ecthelion, Lord Maeglin, Father, and several of King Turgon’s guards had all been playing a card game, and now Arandil’s purple-frilled lizard had ruined everything. This called for some fast thinking.

Arandil didn’t pause at all as he changed his direction from running after the lizard to running to Uncle Turgon. It was vital that he get to Uncle Turgon before Father got to him, and Father was already moving. Arandil leapt into Uncle Turgon’s arms just in time, twisting around to rest his head trustingly against the King’s shoulder.

Turgon was laughing, and so was Uncle Ecthelion. Lord Maeglin’s face looked like he had just swallowed curdled milk, but he hid that pretty quickly. Arandil’s father, on the other hand, was fuming, and not doing a very good job of hiding it.

“Oh, do calm down, titta otorno.” The King teased, “It was just a lizard, and besides, the rest of you should be grateful. I was winning that hand.

Ecthelion nodded towards the folded cards, and then flipped them over when he received nods of permission. Ecthelion chuckled. “Well, I was going to fold, and his highness here did have the rest of you easily.”

“Turgon,” Glorfindel complained, “You’re spoiling him!”

For some reason that Arandil didn’t understand, everyone started laughing again except Maeglin. Turgon laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face. Arandil frowned, and wiped one away with his clean pocket handkerchief. Well, mostly clean. It had held a bit of breakfast egg for lizard tempting.

Turgon chuckled and dropped the handkerchief onto the floor. “Thank you, titta Arandilya, but these are happy tears. You see, your father taught my daughter how to ask, “Why?,” every time she didn’t understand something, and how to use a sword, and a dozen and a half other things I had forbidden her to do. So….”

Turgon smiled wolfishly. Glorfindel glowered, but he backed down. Evidently seeing the humor in the situation at last, Glorfindel waited until Turgon’s attention had turned back to the cards, then stuck his tongue out at his small son, his blue eyes glimmering with humor.

Arandil, beyond pleased at having finally pushed Father to exactly the state of irritation that resulted in amusement rather than anger, grinned back and stuck his own tongue out. Turgon tapped Arandil on the head, and reminded him that it wasn’t done to stick one’s tongue out at other elves, even if the other elf in question was one’s father and he had done it first.

Arandil spent the rest of the afternoon and the early evening learning how to play cards while he sat in the King’s lap. Turgon fed Arandil so many sweets that Arandil didn’t even want anymore, and taught him all the rules of the three different card games they were playing. Arandil liked learning rules – otherwise how were you supposed to know what you could do without actually getting into trouble?

Arandil must have fallen asleep there, since he half-awoke much later in his own bed, cuddled up against his Father's broad chest. He snuggled even tighter into Glorfindel’s arms, butting the top of his head gently against his father’s chin to ask for a kiss.

Glorfindel obliged with a chuckle that vibrated against Arandil like the loudest lizard purr ever.

“Whatever am I going to do with you, little Cavecat?” Glorfindel asked his son. It was his special nickname for Arandil, and he never used it except in private. A lot of people wouldn’t have understood it. Cave cats were normally vicious killers which couldn’t be tamed or reasoned with, but once when Glorfindel got lost from his patrol in a storm he had befriended one. It had been hurt, and Glorfindel had tended to its wounds and to its baby cub until the cat was all better. Years later, when Father and his companions had been ambushed while guarding Princess Aredhel, the grown up cavecat cub had appeared and helped them to fight their enemies. So, while most elves hated and avoided the fierce predators that lived in the mountains encircling their home, Glorfindel had a certain respect and fondness for them.

Arandil figured that his father’s question was probably rhetorical. His mother loved rhetorical questions. They weren’t usually his father’s favorite – Glorfindel normally demanded a prompt, complete, and polite answer from his son. Arandil looked up at his father, trying to figure out what Glorfindel wanted.

The golden-haired Vanya just shook his head, his arms tightening around his son and his head leaning forward to press another kiss against Arandil’s brow.

“Glorendil, hinya, you simply have no fear.”

Arandil frowned in confusion. “What is there to be afraid of? Bad things will either happen, or they won't.” After all, Arandil thought to himself, if you're going to catch a lizard with a special purple frill, you need a little daring. 

Glorfindel sighed, “I hope that you never learn all the things there are to be afraid of. But being you, you probably will.” Father sounded glumly certain. When Father's mind went to dark places, it was Arandil’s job to cheer Father up. So Arandil asked whether he could have the lizard with the special purple frill if he convinced it to come home with him, and Glorfindel said that he already had too many lizards, so Arandil asked for a cream pastry instead, and that distracted Father quite nicely and even made him laugh.


	13. The Golden and Ebony Flowers of Gondolin - Chapter 3 - A Sweet and Biddable Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arandil was his mother's darling boy, and his father's difficult child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote:
> 
> "...But Tuor looked upon the walls of stone, and the uplifted towers, upon the glistering pinnacles of the town, and he looked upon the stairs of stone and marble, bordered by slender balustrades and cooled by the leap of fountains of Amon Gwareth..." ― The Fall of Gondolin (Houghton Mifflin version page 159)
> 
> Excerpt from Consequences:
> 
> “And "Sir" makes me look about for my father, when he is in a mood and I have just erred as his soldier, which once I was, 'ere he died."
> 
> Lord Glorfindel came into the room just then, an odd look on his face.
> 
> Arandil greeted the Balrog-slayer with a nod and twinkling eyes before continuing, "You see, Melpomaen, my father would bellow like a rhinoceros in heat when someone displeased him, and calling him "Sir" was the most reliable way to calm him down, even if in my head I was silently adding "donkey" to the end of "Sir."
> 
> Glorfindel glared at all of them, and then began berating them for being late to arms practice again. He appeared, to Melpomaen, ready and willing to bodily carry all three of them if they didn't move more quickly.
> 
> "Yes, sir." Arandil said to Glorfindel, impish and wry and moving just out of arm's reach and out into the busy corridor with truly impressive speed.
> 
> "I'm going to thrash him." Glorfindel muttered.
> 
> "Anatar...." Erestor reproved lightly, coughing to hide a laugh. "I think you're just encouraging him."
> 
> "He's impossible." Complained Glorfindel.
> 
> "Hmm." Commented Erestor neutrally, with dancing eyes. Melpomaen wished that someone would tell him what the joke was.

Arandil was an only child. He was the first child born to his extended family since his cousin Laurehandon forty years before, and Laurehandon himself had been the first child born amongst Glorfindel's, Ecthelion's, and Turgon's families since Idril and Maeglin. Idril had been born in Aman, and Maeglin had come to Gondolin near full-grown, such that he had never known his uncle the King as a small elfling. 

It was said, amongst the elves of Gondolin, that Turgon doted upon brave Glorfindel's little son as if he were the King's own. Most said so with fondness; Glorfindel was the city's bold, golden hero, and Arandil his adorable little ebony shadow. But there were those who spoke with envy, and many yeni later, Arandil would realize that Maeglin was one such. 

As an elfling, he had not understood Prince Maeglin's covert dislike. Nor had it bothered Arandil very much. His lack of grandparents did not bother him, either. He knew that other elflings had grandparents, such as his sometimes-playmates Miss Alcariniel and Master Armion, whose grandfather was the friendly Sir Hassaeron of the House of the Swallow. But neither of Arandil's parents ever talked about their own parents. Later he would learn that his maternal grandfather had sometimes been violent and controlling, and that his maternal grandmother had not always been able to protect Arandil's mother and uncles from her husband. Glorfindel, on the other hand, had gotten on quite well with his mother and father, at least until he'd decided to leave for Tirion in pursuit of becoming one of Prince Fingolfin's peace keepers. Glorfindel had been disowned for that, because his father didn't approve of his path in life. Arandil would much later appreciate that Glorfindel would never do that to his own son. Glorfindel might still be trying to change Arandil's mind about giving up his career as a solider some five thousand years after the fact, but he'd never give up on his son. 

Yet all of those worries were years away, when Arandil was a child. He was busy, and indulged. Much was expected of him, but much was given as well. His parents were deeply in love, and they made a space in that love for him. 

As a young child, he spent more time with his mother than with his father. Lady Laureamoriel was Princess Idril's scribe and lady-in-waiting. Idril, too, loved little Arandil, and permitted his mother to bring him with her when she went about her duties. Princess Idril's former nurse looked after the baby and toddler Arandil when his mother and the Princess and her other ladies were busy, but it was not very long at all before the elfling was permitted to attend on the Princess himself on all but the most formal or discreet of occasions. He learned to be still and sweet-mannered for his mother and Princess Idril. Oh, they would let him play and his mother always had small toys or parchments and wax sticks for him to entertain himself with, but Arandil quickly learned that if he occupied himself quietly, he got to stay with his mother and not with the nursemaid. The nursemaid was a nice enough elleth, but Arandil preferred his mother. So his mother got his quiet side, the patience and the charm. They spent so much time together that they knew one another's little quirks. 

Laureamoriel was not a disciplinarian. She believed that a gentle word and a quiet direction for next time would do far more good than a spanking. If Arandil misbehaved, then she took away certain treats and privileges. Much, much later, Arandil would understand that part of why Laureamoriel never raised a hand to her son or her nephew was because her own father had been abusive. He would also come to learn, decades after he'd lost his mother, that she'd learned how to tactfully sway a strong mind to a less abrasive course of action long before she'd had him or even his father to practice on, because Laureamoriel had been the Lady Galadriel's scribe and handmaiden before she became Idril's. 

But most crucially of all, Arandil behaved for his mother, was polite and respectful and discreet for his mother, because if he wasn't, then he wouldn't have been able to spend as much time with her. It wasn't a punishment, per se, but if he was rude to an ambassador's wife while with his mother and the Princess, then he ended up spending extra time with a nursemaid, his parents' household staff, or a tutor, until he could be trusted to behave himself around important personages again. 

Arandil had no such incentive to behave well for his father. Oh, he loved Glorfindel, and wanted to please him, but doing everything just right didn't get him more time with Glorfindel. If anything, being perfectly obedient meant that his father spent LESS time with him, so Arandil quickly learned that being just naughty and demanding enough was the way to get his father's attention. Glorfindel appreciated cheeky, and stubborn, as long as Arandil didn't take it too far. Which Arandil often did - he was his father's son, after all. 

Also, Arandil was a child who liked to ask "why?" He never really out grew his "why" phase, and Glorfindel's response to "why" was almost always, "Because I said so." This was not persuasive reasoning, so far as Arandil was concerned. His mother, on the other hand, had a scholar and a teacher's patience with explanations, however humble or esoteric. Arandil could count on one hand the number of times his mother had ever told him “Because I said so.” He’d done what she’d asked, each one of those times, because she never asked, and because, after the first time, he knew that she’d do her best to explain later.

Glorfindel had many virtues, but he also had a quick temper. Arandil had inherited some of that, but before he completely lost his temper, some part of him always had to ask ‘Why?" Why am I upset, what will acting angry get me, as opposed to being calm?’ Arandil could be furious one moment, and then laughing at his own folly the next. ‘Why?,’ Arandil would ask himself, and then, ‘If I am set on doing this, how can I do it better?’ Arandil never did exactly the same thing he’d been told not to do again. Arandil could nearly always convince his mother and everyone else of his acquaintance that he hadn’t known better than to get into whatever slightly different mischief he'd found, but not his father. To be fair to Glorfindel, he very rarely misjudged his son. Arandil usually had known better. But those rare times resulted in Arandil feeling very hard-done-by. Even when he’d earned the punishment. 

This is not to say that Glorfindel was never proud of his small son. Arandil would follow at his father's heels at every opportunity, mimicking Glorfindel at arms practice, a small stick clutched in his chubby little hand. The golden-haired warrior smiled at that, and went to the carpenters with Arandil in tow to have a small wooden sword made just for him. The elfling learned to dance with a blade in his hand, the great warrior's calloused palms gently adjusting his son's stance. 

Nor did Arandil shy away from the less glamorous aspects of an apprentice warrior's trade. He followed his father as Glorfindel shoveled manure with squires and stable boys, ran endless laps with soldiers, and carried buckets of water for farmers. As soon as he was able, Arandil tried to put on his father's armor so that he could run his laps around the city in full warrior dress, just like his Atar. Glorfindel yelled, swatted, and then laughed. A trip to the armorer's was made, for a very small suit of boiled leather armor, painted bright gold and dark green. 

Arandil always hated to admit that he couldn't do something. As they ran along the curtain wall of the hidden city, he would make goals for himself. 'I will keep up with Atar until the silver fountain,' and then, 'I will keep up with his squire until the rose garden,' and finally, 'I will keep up with Atar's slowest soldier, until I cannot run anymore.' 

That time would always come, at least until Arandil was a teenager. His father would pick him up, small armor and all, and let Arandil ride for the rest of the run, his arms clasped around Glorfindel's neck. His father even stopped carrying a pack on his morning run, so that it was easier for him to carry Arandil. It would be yeni before Arandil realized how exhausting that must have been for his father. Once, carrying a sleeping Elrohir back from swimming while Glorfindel carried Elladan, it did occur to Arandil to apologize for that. But Glorfindel had waved the apology off, saying that carrying such a dedicated apprentice warrior as his son had been both a pleasure and an honor, always. Arandil, touched, had believed him. Glorfindel was many things, but a liar was not one of them. 

It was normally Laureamoriel who had more patience for her small son's antics. Arandil could clearly remember swimming in a fountain one summer day. He'd been ordered out of the water to eat and was then waiting impatiently for his food to settle. While he waited, he played with his shoes, wondering if they would float. His Aunt Lindanelle, watching this, warned Arandil that if his shoes went in the water, then Arandil himself would be going in to fetch them. Since that was exactly what Arandil wanted, he threw his shoes in the water, and hopped in right after them. Lindanelle and Laureamoriel laughed, deciding between themselves that Arandil had done no more than exactly what he was told, given the technical bounds of the rules as they had been explained to him. Laureamoriel was not an elleth to change the rules on someone mid-swim, and Lindanelle had never developed an immunity to her only nephew's charm. 

Glorfindel, on the other hand, thought that Arandil should have known better. He fished his son out of the water, turned Arandil over his knee, and applied a series of six sharp swats to the seat of the elfling's wet leggings. Arandil yelped in outrage, then spent most of the rest of the afternoon trying to irritate his father without going so far as to inspire a repeat performance. Despite their disagreements, Glorfindel lifted Arandil onto his shoulders at the end of that day, so that his son could see the jugglers and the tumblers performing on the square. 

That was actually one of the nice things about incurring the wrath of Arandil's father. Glorfindel punished someone, and then it was over. He might bring up the incident to remind his son not to do something again, but even after a spanking from his father, Arandil could be back in Glorfindel's good graces within the space of less than an hour (unless he instead chose to purposely antagonize his father, which even then Glorfindel was sometimes willing to overlook). 

It was far rarer that Arandil's behavior truly upset his mother, but when it did, she was slower to get over such an incident. And she was an elleth, so there were some things she simply didn't understand. One such incident happened not long after Arandil's adventure trying to capture the lizard with the purple frill, when Arandil was twelve years old, or about the same age as a human five year old. It was a feast day, and Arandil was playing with other elflings, something that he did not have a tremendous amount of experience with. The elflings he was most likely to spend time with were Alcariniel, who was the equivalent of five human years older than him, and her younger brother Armion, who was about three human years Arandil's junior. Arandil generally liked Alcariniel and Armion, at least in limited doses. Alcariniel usually wanted him to play dolls, but as long as he got to play the knight doll with his sword, Arandil didn't mind doing that for a little while. Armion, at the equivalent of a human two years of age, could be more difficult. He made funny faces and laughed at Arandil's jokes and followed Arandil around almost like a human puppy, which was rather gratifying, but he also tried to eat the knight-doll's sword and destroyed the toy buildings which Arandil and Alcariniel built with cousin Laurehandon's modeling materials. And Armion had a tendency to bite, which Arandil did not like. He didn't complain to adults, because he wasn't a snitch, but he did not care for the biting. 

On that particular feast day, Alcariniel and Armion were there, but so too were the two sons of Lord Comyaro and the grandson of Lord Salgant. One -on -one, Arandil had no problem with any of them, but when the four young ellyn were in the same place, they would run rough-shod over other all the other elflings. And they managed it in such a way that most of the grown-up elves didn't notice. 

Now, Arandil knew all about getting into mischief in such a way that adult elves didn't notice, but he didn't hold with pulling Alcariniel's braids and then telling her that she was a baby if she complained. So he told them to stop. Norimon, the younger of Lord Comyaro's sons, did stop, but Lord Salgant's grandson Hanacon just laughed, and Norimon's brother Rondo shoved Arandil. Arandil told him to stop, then mocked him for pushing around a smaller elfling when he wouldn't stop. But he still wouldn't stop, and Laureamoriel's position on hitting and shoving was very clear. Arandil was Not To. 

But Rondo wouldn't stop pushing him, and Arandil's back was already against the wall. His head started hitting the stones, and it hurt. Norimon and Hanacon laughed, while Alcariniel and Armion remained frozen in indecision. Seeing Armion gave Arandil an idea. Pushing and hitting were not allowed, but Armion never got into trouble for biting, and it wasn't technically disallowed. His mother had never told Arandil not to bite other elflings. 

So Arandil bit Rondo. Rondo cried and went running to his father. Who went and got Glorfindel, who turned Arandil over his knee and spanked him on the spot. That cheered Rondo right up. Arandil wasn't entirely pleased with the situation, but at least his head wasn't hurting anymore. Unfortunately, even though Arandil's father wasn't that upset now that he'd spanked his son, Laureamoriel was appalled and disappointed. She had to stay to attend on Princess Idril, but she insisted that Arandil be sent home from the festival and put to bed early, with no bed-time story. That had never happened to Arandil before at his mother's instigation. 

Laureamoriel did come to him later that night. He didn't wake up fully, but he had a hazy memory of being pulled into his mother's arms and held against her velvet gown while she assured him that she loved him, and that tomorrow would be a better day. But what Arandil remembered most clearly was his father talking to him the next day. 

"Biting is only for little elflings and those rat-like dogs of Idril's." Glorfindel said firmly, but kindly, "But the next time someone pushes you, push them back. Don't start it, and don't hit after one shove if the fellow's the same size as you or will listen if you tell him to stop. But if you've warned him and he hits you again, hit him back, hard enough to make him re-think a little. You may get in trouble for it, but it's the right thing to do, and I'll back you as much as I can." And Glorfindel always did. He was good about keeping his promises. 

When Arandil turned twenty-five (the equivalent of a human ten years of age), he was taken away from his mother to be fostered with all the other male elflings of noble birth. Each of the twelve great houses of Gondolin took it in turn to host and train the flower of their youth for six months at a time, before sending the group on to the next house. Arandil missed his parents, but he returned home for sixth and seventh days, most festivals, the summer months, and for the many months when it was his parents' turn to provide shelter and education for him and the other twenty-some hooligans who would someday become the new knights and young lords of Gondolin. It was, in many ways, excellent training for how to get along in an army company. With his clever wit, his daring, and his friendliness, Arandil quickly became one of the most popular of the pages and then junior squires. Even Rondo often wanted Arandil involved in their mischief and play, because with Arandil involved, they were much less likely to actually get into trouble! 

Arandil learned as he spent time in the other houses that not all Lords were like his father. Some of them knew better how their own households ran, but several were so out of touch with their people that they did not even know how clean sheets came to be on their beds in the morning. Lord Rog, Lord Galdor, Lord Ecthelion, Lord Egalmoth, Lord Duilin, and Lord Maeglin all practiced arms with their elves, but only Lord Rog and Lord Galdor did so anywhere near as consistently and as strenuously as Glorfindel. 

Arandil learned from all of them. From his Uncle Lord Ecthelion, he learned to play the harp and wield a lighter, sharper blade than his mighty father preferred. From Lord Duilin, he learned to fletch a bow and carve a toy horse. From Lord Rog, he learned to forge his own weapons. Well, he learned HOW to, at the least. Most of the weapons actually forged by young Lord Arandil were better suited to an existence as plow shares, and for that matter, his toy horse looked more like a toy hippopotamus. But he was an avid student of the blade and the bow and all the arts of war, and had very pretty manners, besides. He was the epitome of what a young Lord of Gondolin was supposed to be, and in the twenty-five years he spent in fosterage, Arandil did much to improve the standing of his own house. Glorfindel had been born a commoner, and Laureamoriel merely the daughter of an officer. Glorfindel had never seen a reason to hold his tongue when he had an opinion, and Laureamoriel was painted with some of the same cold, upstart elegance of her first mistress. But Arandil....was one of them, and knew how to make a friend out of anyone. For all of that, though, the only fights young Arandil got into, as page and squire, were with those who insulted his father. Which eventually got Arandil into trouble with the King himself. 

"Your father can fight his own fights, titta Arandilya." Turgon lectured, using his own linen square to wipe blood away from the forty-two year old elfling's bleeding scalp. "In fact," Turgon said with an expression that Arandil couldn't quite decipher, "There are times when he likes nothing better." 

So it was that Arandil learned it was better to speak softly, and that the better part of valor was to keep his own counsel, and wait for an opportunity to change minds when he might. Lord Galdor never truly learned to like Lord Glorfindel; but he came closer, for hearing Arandil speak in favor of his father without losing his temper. 

When Glorfindel and Laureamoriel were told by the other Lords of Gondolin what a joy their son was, it came as no surprise to Laureamoriel. Nor even very much to Glorfindel, for a joy, Glorfindel could believe his son was. But when told of his son's sweet temper and biddableness, the Balrog-Slayer-To-Be was openly disbelieving. There was perhaps good reason for that. When biding in his own home with his fellow pages and junior squires, Arandil felt that it was his duty to show that he was not cowed by his famous father. Arandil sometimes went a bit further when it came to that endeavor than was strictly wise. And then again there was the "why" reflex, which Glorfindel liked no more in the teenaged elfling than he'd liked it in the small child. 

Some of their worst confrontations during Arandil's teenaged years occurred over the summer months, when it was just Arandil and his parents (well, and their busy household). Glorfindel was determined to teach his son how to do complicated sums and keep the accounting books for their House, and Glorfindel wasn’t much inclined to explain why beyond, “Because I told you to.” In later years, Arandil would agree that this was an important skill to learn, and even admire his father for persisting in a task which did not come easily to him. However, at the time, it didn’t help that Glorfindel himself wasn’t good at sums, so he didn’t do a particularly good job of explaining them to Arandil.

Arandil would refuse to do the work until Glorfindel gave up and assigned him to muck out stables or run laps or do push ups as punishment, which is what Arandil preferred to do anyway (well, not the stables, but even that was better than sums). Glorfindel eventually caught onto this. On that unfortunate but also unforgettable day, Arandil found himself soundly spanked, then receiving a few firm swats with his father’s strap. That would have been bad enough – his father was a champion spanker, and Glorfindel’s strap, while not actually damaging, made a burning impact that was justly infamous. Worse than the pain of the spanking though was being stationed in the corner of Glorfindel’s office with his leggings and his small clothes down ‘round his ankles, and his tunic and undershirt pinned up to display his reddened bottom.

No fewer than five different clerks and officers came into his father’s office that afternoon. None of them said anything at the time or later, but Arandil still thought that he would die of embarrassment. Fortunately, all of the witnesses to that ignominious moment – and other similar ones – had been male. If he knew that a maid or female scribe was about to enter, or even Arandil’s mother, Glorfindel would let him know that he could at least lower his tunic. It wasn’t much, but it was deeply appreciated at the time. 

Such discipline was rare in Arandil's life, except when he clashed with his father. Arandil was good at explaining himself to most adults, and his charm and willingness to work hard led them to excuse most of the natural consequences of his sometimes excessive exuberance and cleverness. Arandil always had a reason for whatever he'd done, usually one that was good enough to avert a punishment - or at least a serious punishment - from anyone but his oh-too-skeptical father. 

That, coupled with his more frequent attendance as a junior squire at Council meetings, made Arandil feel rather frustrated with his father. Not only did Glorfindel fail to consistently recognize the cleverness and burgeoning maturity of his only son, he also quarreled loudly with the other Lords and worthies of Gondolin. Arandil didn't fully understand all of the issues, or at least so he recognized in retrospect, but he understood enough of what was going on to wonder why his father didn't try a bit of diplomacy. Everyone already knew how Glorfindel felt - there were probably elves still in the West who knew how Arandil's father felt! However, just by being a little more polite and willing to compromise, Glorfindel could have been much more successful in getting what he wanted. Arandil just didn't understand his father's inflexibility. 

Neither did the Aran. There was one council session where Turgon himself ordered Arandil's father to moderate his tone. Glorfindel did, for about fifteen minutes. Sometimes Arandil thought that his father's attention span for anything which wasn't related to the military might be no longer than the attention span of one of the goldfish in King Turgon's fountains. In any case, Glorfindel forgot the King's warning and roared at Lords Galdor and Duilin again. Aran Turgon invited Arandil's father to leave the session, and then to report to his private audience chamber later that evening. 

Arandil should have retired back to Lord Salgant's house with all of the other junior squires, but he felt both incensed and curious. Every time Glorfindel lost his temper in Council, or quarreled with one of his fellow Lords, or even just won yet again more admiration from the populace, it was Arandil who had to do damage control with both Lord Galdor and his fellow junior squires. Arandil WAS proud of his father, he was, but it was no small burden to be the son of a Great Elf, let alone such a controversial and hot-headed Great Elf. 

So Arandil was more than a little glad that his father was in trouble with the King. Glorfindel always said that Turgon was too indulgent with Arandil, but if Arandil had been anywhere near as rude to anyone as Glorfindel had been to Lords Maeglin, Duilin, Salgant, Rog, and Galdor just that day, then Glorfindel would have put his son over his knee and spanked him soundly right there on the spot, and then probably strapped him when they got home, just to make sure that the lesson sunk in! 

With that in mind, Arandil decided to eavesdrop on his father's audience with the King. His conscience bothered him a little - it was surely a failing in filial piety and respect, if nothing else. But since Glorfindel occasionally had so little respect for his son’s privacy and dignity, Arandil decided that it was an acceptable failing on his part. So Arandil crept stealthily into the hidden passage facing the King's throne in the small audience chamber. He sank to the floor, soundlessly removing a tile between the passage and the room, so that he could see his father standing at attention before King Turgon and Lord Ecthelion. What followed was a lecture that exceeded in heatedness and pointedness even those of Arandil's father, making the young Lord wonder if perhaps his father had learned how to verbally excoriate a wrong-doer from their King. Who did, in fact, view Glorfindel as a younger brother, and proceeded to treat him as one would an erring younger sibling. 

Arandil's eyes grew round as saucers as he watched Ecthelion pull a chair from the side wall, just a few inches away from Arandil's face. Turgon took a seat on the chair, then yanked Arandil's great, golden father over his lap. He unceremoniously pulled down Glorfindel's leggings, rested his hand on the Lord's bare backside as he demanded a recitation from Glorfindel of the hothead's most recent transgressions and their proper tariff. Upon receiving Glorfindel's unhappy replies, the King began laying down furiously stinging smacks. Or at least so Arandil inferred from the loud, resounding sound of the spanks, and by his brave, strong father's winces and yelps. The spanking seemed to continue for quite some time. At first Arandil was pleased to see his most frequent and at times (in Arandil's opinion) overly firm disciplinarian get his comeuppance. But as the spanking continued and his father's yelps turned to howls, Arandil couldn't help but feel sorry for him, and rather ashamed for his own intrusion into what should have been a private moment between his father, the King, and their mutual friend and oath-brother. 

Not so ashamed, however, that his eyes were not glued to the scene as his proud father was helped to his feet to once again stand penitently before the King. Turgon's face was stern, but there was a spark of fondness and familiar exasperation in his face as he surveyed his loyal-but-troublesome retainer. Arandil noted that absently; most of his attention was on his father's bright red rear. Arandil was impressed - he was not sure that even with his father's most strenuous efforts, his own backside had ever achieved such a deep and glowing rosy shade. And that without even the aid of a strap or crop! It made Arandil resolve to never push his beloved Uncle Turgon's patience to the point where he would be put over the royal lap! Such a resolution would be in vain, after one incident not long after Arandil's coming of age, but even more so after Arandil rejoined Turgon in the West, and Turgon learned of how Arandil had blamed and tortured himself for centuries for failing to prevent Turgon's death. 

But that day in Gondolin, it was Glorfindel who had pushed Aran Turgon beyond the limits of his patience. Arandil had seen enough, and would have preferred to leave, but feared that he could not do so without being seen by Ecthelion, who had just been sent to the King's office to fetch the King's strap. 

"I imagine that your hind end could use this time to recover before facing my strap, eh, titta otorno?" The King asked, the exasperated fondness again shining through his anger and disappointment. 

Glorfindel's blush deepened as he stood before the King's throne, naked save for his long undershirt. "Aye, your Grace. You've not lost your touch." 

"Maybe I would have the opportunity to forget how to do this, if you could do us both the favor of learning to control your blasted temper." Turgon spoke softly, but as a reprimand, it was even more effective than if he had shouted. Arandil shuddered, hoping again that he never gave his beloved King reason to be so disappointed in him. 

Even the mighty Glorfindel flinched. Then he rallied, "They're all idiots, elder-brother-mine. And you are, too, for listening to them."

Ecthelion, who had just returned, stopped dead at this, his mouth gaping open in shock. Arandil, on the other hand, was not really surprised. He was even perversely a little proud of his father, for standing up for himself, even if Glorfindel had picked a remarkably stupid time and place to do so. 

The King's lips tightened, but Turgon said nothing.

After a moment, Ecthelion spoke, “Eru, Glor, that's not even fair! Duilin can be short-sighted, and he wasn't at his best today, but he's far from a fool. And Salgant, well....." Ecthelion trailed off as if to indicate that maybe Lord Salgant was an idiot. As a conversational gambit it wasn't much, but it did relieve the tension, in a manner of speaking. Turgon's attention snapped to Ecthelion, incredulous and disappointed, before his lips curved into an exasperated smile. 

"Valar, not you too, Theli," said the King, "If you'd like a share of the discomfort that our younger brother has earned for himself, all you need do is ask." 

"I can take my own strapping." Said Glorfindel indignantly, almost pouting. 

"You most certainly can." Ecthelion assured him, "I had my fill of getting strapped for losing my temper back when we were all Uncle Fingolfin's problem." 

All three elven elders winced, perhaps in memory. Then Turgon spent another five minutes blistering Glorfindel's ears before ordering him to bend over a table. Turgon accepted the long strap from Ecthelion and placed it down on the table where Glorfindel would have no choice but to contemplate it. 

"I gave you that knife strap." Glorfindel muttered in complaint. 

"And a good thing you did. I'd just about worn out my last one on your obstreperous, disrespectful, intransigent, too-valiant backside!" Turgon retorted, tapping Glorfindel's thinly clad hip. For the first time, Arandil's father groaned, sounding as if he might be honestly penitent, or at the least, honestly rueful. The King placed a pillow under Glorfindel's hips, so that the great lord's bottom was, Arandil supposed, ideally presented for the strap. Arandil wasn't really sure - he'd only ever been strapped over his father's lap, and with a shorter strap. He continued to watch, mildly horrified, as Turgon's forearm pulled the strap back and then rested it gently against Glorfindel's backside, as if marking his place. Then Turgon's arm moved again, snapping the strap down with a loud crack against the blond warrior's bottom. A wide red stripe appeared on Glorfindel's backside, marking it a slightly deeper shade than the surrounding rosy globes. The strap fell again and again, upwards and downwards of the first darker red line. Glorfindel swore up a storm, which the King ignored, merely placing a gentle but firm hand on his lord's lower back to hold Glorfindel in place. Finally, it was finished. Turgon and Ecthelion helped Glorfindel to his feet, half-holding him up while he swayed for a moment. They helped him to restore his appearance, and Turgon placed a fatherly kiss on his brow, as if in forgiveness. The three spoke, but their words were so soft that they did not carry to Arandil, who took advantage of their distraction to make his escape.

Arandil returned to Lord Salgant's home, sneaking in through the back way, and never told anyone of what he had seen. Armion and Rondo had covered for his absence, Armion because he had a small case of hero worship for Arandil, and Rondo because he owed Arandil for not snitching about having caught Rondo kissing Lord Duilin's great-niece in a broom closet. The great-niece in question, a dozen years older than Rondo and Arandil, had been the instigator of the escapade, and Rondo an enthusiastic participant, so Arandil's conscience didn't trouble him about keeping the matter quiet. On his way out of the palace, he had charmed a basket of sweet biscuits and a pitcher of mead out of the cook on duty. The snack provided a reason for his absence, and sharing it bought the silence of his other fellow pages and squires. Even if it hadn't, getting caught sneaking out to get food was a fairly common offense amongst the young noble ellyn, and carried a known but fairly mild penalty. Arandil always hedged his bets when he could. 

Perhaps five years after that incident, Arandil achieved his 50th year and officially came "of age." Being of age meant that he graduated, so to speak, from the formal system of fosterage as a junior squire. Commoner youths would have begun their apprenticeships somewhere between the ages of twenty-five and 50, with many ellyn leaving their trade to pursue military training between the ages of 50 and 144. Noble youths might enter military training once they came of age, only if they had their father's leave, but most would serve as their father's junior squire for another five decades, until they reached 100 years of age and attained their full physical growth. Arandil had no intent of waiting any time at all. He was more than ready to begin his military career. He dreamed of exceeding in skill and glory even his famous father. He yearned to serve Gondolin as her sword and shield, both for his love of the city and his love of his King. What’s more, he wanted to earn his own place, to be known as his own elf and not merely his father's son. And he wanted his father's respect for the one thing that Glorfindel ever truly admired in an ellon; strength of arms and skill as a soldier. 

When Arandil came of age, there were at least six months outstanding until the next class of young trainees could begin their apprenticeship as soldiers. So, understandably, Arandil would have to wait six months. His parents made no promises that he would be able to begin his training with the next class, but Arandil didn't worry about that. He was sure that he could talk them into it. Six months wasn't so long, after all. 

Arandil spent most of it learning from his father. Mostly learning more of the arts of war, but now that he'd grown up a little and found a competent mathematics tutor in the house of his Uncle Ecthelion, even helping his father do the accounting for their House didn't seem as bad. He also spent time with his mother, going now to attend on Princess Idril with her as a young gallant rather than a charming child. He played the lute with Lindanelle and sang with his mother, and lost numerous games of chess to Idril. 

He also got into a running brawl/disagreement with Rondo. Rondo's older lady suitor had fallen in love with Arandil's fine singing voice and ebony hair. This was not Arandil's fault, but Rondo did not seem to understand that, nor was he the only young ellon to object to how much feminine admiration was being heaped upon the son of Turgon's celebrated golden Captain. It was, Arandil reflected as he scuffled with Rondo and three young soldier-trainees in the palace barn, really his father's fault as much as it was Rondo's. 

Arandil got the worst of that encounter. Turgon and his escort returned from a ride before the brawl could really turn ugly. Rondo and his compatriots turned and ran, leaving the unfortunate Arandil, covered in straw and worse substances, to explain the disruption to the King. 

"It was naught but a vigorous difference of opinion, your Grace,” protested Arandil. His father had dismounted to help Arandil to his feet. The corners of Glorfindel’s mouth seemed to twitch at his son’s explanation. He handed Arandil a miraculously clean kerchief.

“Elaborate, Arandilya.” Commanded Turgon, apparently dissatisfied with that brief but true summary.

“Truly, your Grace, it was just a difference of opinion between young adult ellyn of good families, all capable of defending themselves. Now, had it been a disagreement between such ellyn and an ellon of humbler family, who daren't stand up for himself for fear of retribution, or between any ellon and an elleth or an elfling, well, then.....I might feel the need to confess the whole sorry circumstances of how I got the worst of this....difference of opinion. Or if it becomes a more widespread pattern of….differences of opinion. But for now, I will be discreet.” After all, Arandil could always change his mind later. And now the corners of his father’s lips were definitely twitching.

Turgon frowned mildly. “That was a royal order, titta arandilya.” 

“I'm sorry, Aranya, but that was my answer.” 

Turgon frowned again, this time fiercely, and looked as if he might want to shake Arandil. Finally he shook his head instead, and turned to leave with a muttered, “Maybe your father can talk some sense into you.”

Glorfindel waited for Turgon and his other attendants to leave, then placed a strong hand upon Arandil’s shoulder.

“Good job.” He complimented, his blue eyes twinkling with laughter and pride. “Now let’s get you a steak for that eye, and set to teaching you how to defeat more than one opponent without using lethal force.”

Arandil grinned, and willingly followed his father, grateful both for the pride and the guidance, and more for the understanding. There are few things more comforting than to be understood, and say what one liked about Glorfindel, almost no one understood Arandil as well as he did. Arandil always felt safe with his father, which was likely why he pushed Glorfindel as hard as he did. Laureamoriel usually stood back and let the two of them spar with one another, verbally or physically. If she felt that Glorfindel was truly being too hard on their darling boy, she would intervene on Arandil's behalf. Arandil could count on one hand the times that Glorfindel had actually followed through on punishing him if his mother said to let it go. 

In short, during the six months between Arandil’s maturity and the starting date of the next soldier-trainee course, he had achieved a practically unprecedented level of congeniality and mutual respect in his dealings with his impressive father. Which made it only the more difficult when Glorfindel’s non-committal response to Arandil’s joining the military this year became a hard “No.”

“You’re not mature enough, and I’m not sending you into a situation where you might face real action before you are.”

“But the trainees aren’t even allowed outside the gates for nearly a decade, Atto! You’re not being fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Glorendil yonya, and if you don’t know that yet than you really aren’t ready to get up every morning at dawn and spar and train with ellyn who are mostly twice your age or older.” 

“I am, Atto, but how can I prove it if you won’t let me try?”

“You will do as you are told, and I have told you no. If you cannot even obey your father and Lord without these childish complaints, then how are you to obey your training officer? We have spoiled and coddled you, Glorendilya, and while that is only partially your fault, it has left you unfit for the rigors of the life of a soldier-trainee.”

Arandil, seeing his dreams of achieving his own life and honor go up in flames in front of him, wanted to yell and scream and run away crying, all at the once. But again, when he reached the point of having his temper almost explode…he stopped. And asked himself silently, ‘Why? What will shouting gain me?’ Arandil took deep breaths and calmed himself, hoping that given another moment to think he might come up with something, anything, to change his Atar’s mind.

At his son’s obvious upset and heartbreak, Glorfindel’s hard expression softened slightly. “I will continue to train you and drill with you, yonya. If you continue to show good effort, then perhaps you may enlist in two years’ time. I am to be the training commander next year, so of course you could not be in that class.”

“Of course.” Arandil murmured back numbly, his mind racing even as he let nothing but his disappointment show. “Atar, Sir, may I be excused? I wish to rest before dinner.”

In a rare display of not having any idea of what was going on in his offspring’s mind, Glorfindel gave his leave. Arandil hurried off, into his room and then out his window. He had little time if he wanted to make the necessary arrangements to join the incoming class of trainees in the morning.


	14. The Golden and Ebony Flowers of Gondolin - Chapter 4 - Great Mistakes (or, The Great Mistake)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training to be a soldier isn’t easy, but it’s still the easy part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote:
> 
> “Young people don't always do what they're told, but if they can pull it off and do something wonderful, sometimes they escape punishment. ” Rick Riordan
> 
> Excerpt from Consequences:
> 
> "Some disciplinarian you were." Remarked Glorfindel of Arandil.
> 
> "And yet," said Arandil calmly, "My own son was considered a model of decorum upon achieving his majority. He was even made Aran Ereinion's youngest ever Advisor. Whereas your son my Lord Captain....."
> 
> Glorfindel narrowed his eyes dangerously. Melpomaen shrunk a bit against Erestor, who tightened his grip on Melpomaen's shoulders, even as he shook his head as if to say that Melpomaen being intimidated by Glorfindel was silly. Melpomaen knew that Erestor thought that; but the balrog-slayer had a soft spot for Erestor, everybody knew that. For Erestor, and for the twins, but Melpomaen still found Captain Glorfindel both scary and unpredictable.
> 
> "My son," Hissed Captain Glorfinel, "Was and is the best of ellyn, and I will not stand still while you - or anyone else- say a word against him!"
> 
> If Melpomaen were Arandil, he would have been apologizing profusely, whilst quaking in fear.
> 
> "Ah, yes, you reserve the right to criticize him to yourself." Remarked Arandil, still calm, and even seeming a bit pleased with himself.
> 
> Glorfindel's body language shifted in less than an instant from angry to languorous and amused, the kind of mood that he would get into before he playfully tossed one of the twins into the river, to make the point that the armor they had elected to wear that day was too heavy. Oh, he always fished them out before they could actually swallow more than a few mouthfuls of water, but still....

Arandil knew that it would not be easy to fake his father’s signature on his enrollment papers well enough to fool the army recruiting officer. Fortunately, through the auspices of Lord Salagant's grandson Hanacon and his fondness for underage imbibing of intoxicating beverages, Arandil had made the acquaintance of a forger. So, after climbing out his window, Arandil re-traced the steps he had taken with Hanacon and Rondo into one of the least salubrious sections of the city of Gondolin.

When he had gone with his fellow squires Hanacon and Rondo, it had been broad daylight. Here, in the twilight, the narrow streets and smoke-stained buildings seemed a much more menacing place. But Arandil was determined. He found the scribe who had falsified Lord Salagant’s signature for Hanacon on a requisition order for wine in a loud, dark public house, surrounded by characters who seemed a little too dangerous for the forger’s liking. The forger was very glad to leave with Arandil and go to his own small, cramped apartments, where Arandil paid him a month’s allowance to forge Lord Glorfindel’s signature on an official army document. The full ramifications of that act would not become clear to Arandil for some time. He just wanted to join the military and begin training. What could be so wrong with that? Much like Rondo and Hanacon buying wine before they were technically old enough to do so, it seemed to Arandil a victimless crime.

Still, he knew that his father would not approve, so Arandil left a note for his parents, saying that he was spending the night with his cousin Laurehandon. Glorfindel would be annoyed, but Laureamoriel had allowed Arandil that much leeway on any number of occasions, and she’d already been sympathetic to her son’s upset.

Actually going to Laurehandon’s house after obtaining his altered enrollment papers was almost as out of the question as going back to his own parents’ home. Laurehandon would most assuredly try to talk Arandil out of his plan, and failing that, snitch. Laurehandon could be quite tedious about things like that. He was a naturally studios, earnest ellon, and he took being Lord Ecthelion’s heir presumptive very seriously. So Arandil ended up spending the night in a public park. It was a truly eye-opening and somewhat terrifying experience, capped off by two members of the city guard rousting him in the early hours of the morning to ask him where he should be. 

Arandil told them a partial truth - that he had argued with his father about joining the army’s training class, and that his father had reluctantly given his permission, but that if Arandil went home, they would only argue again. The guards were sympathetic, and walked him personally to the recruiting station. It was only there that Arandil gave his actual name, leaving the guards behind him to speculate as the recruiting officer took him in to begin the enrollment process. It was truly no easy thing to be Glorendil Glorfindelchil, son of Gondolin’s great golden hero. Everything he did was remarked over, and compared to the deeds and reputation of his famous father, often coming up short.

It was no different during his training. Some loved him from the start, for his father’s name. Others hated him, or at the least mistrusted him. Arandil did his best to treat them all the same, a task which would have been easier if his training Captain had not been of the “hate him for being Glorfindel’s son” variety.

The tall, hawk-faced ellon surveyed his near eighty assembled recruits with the air of an elf approaching his own execution.

“Look to your left and to your right,” He commanded them, “Only one of the three of you will make a soldier. Perhaps fewer,” he added, staring straight at Arandil, “because some of you should still be in the nursery, even if you were capable of being made a soldier at all.”

In short, Captain Lumbacundo was not an elf who was easily pleased. He served as Captain of the training class every thirteenth year, as the personal representative of Aran Turgon. Arandil had only rarely met him before entering his training class, which was somewhat odd for one of Turgon’s elves, and should have told Arandil something about why his father hadn’t wanted him in this particular class. But Arandil unfortunately hadn’t thought of that, nor had Glorfindel explained. Explanations were not Glorfindel’s strong point.

Training soldiers to the sword and the battle, however, was one of Glorfindel’s strong points. Arandil was, for the most part, as well-prepared for combat training as anyone his age and size could possibly be. There were parts of training that he found difficult, among them making his own bed to his training sergeant’s exacting standards and getting out of it on time. After the third time that Arandil’s entire bunk had to run laps for Arandil’s getting up late, a trainee named Manco started shoving Arandil out of bed a good fifteen minutes before roll call. This was actually quite helpful, and Arandil told him so.

“For a spoiled lordling, you aren’t that stuck up, oh golden one.” Manco observed.

“I didn’t even realize that I was spoiled until I came here.”Arandil confessed, “I also can’t sew a stitch to save my life.”

Manco laughed at that, and offered to teach Arandil to sew if Arandil could help him learn how to not leave himself open to the left when he parried against a smaller opponent. Since that was exactly the type of thing that Arandil did know how to teach, the exchange worked well and smoothed the way to Arandil’s first real friendship amongst his fellow trainees. Manco was popular, and Manco’s approval of the exceptionally young noble in their midst lent Arandil some shine amongst those who found him less rather than more attractive for being Glorfindel’s son.

It did not, however, endear him in any way to Captain Lumbcacundo. It seemed that nothing would be enough to do that. Arandil found that surprising – he’d never before been unable to win over anyone in his entire life, except perhaps Lord Maeglin. But Captain Lumbacundo did not seem to like any of his trainees, most especially Arandil.

“Try not to take offense to this,” Manco panted, while running punishment laps with Arandil, “But being your friend – or even standing next to you – is a dangerous thing when the Captain is in a mood.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Jested Arandil. Of course he had noticed. The fact that there were ellyn willing to stand next to him was a testament to their inner fortitude and his people skills, and perhaps to his willingness to work with elves who had less experience with the sword and the spear and the bow. Army recruits in their first six weeks of training had little free time, and all of Arandil’s was spent helping those falling behind in Lumbacundo’s punishing training regimen. Nothing the Captain could do was enough to make it seem as if Arandil didn’t belong there. Arandil was even getting better at washing dishes and scrubbing floors. But punishing the elves that Arandil was trying to help was one way of punishing Arandil, and Lumbacundo seemed determined to hurt Glorfindel’s son in some way.

So, Arandil began conducting additional training sessions in the middle of the night. It was remarkably dangerous and they all could have been thrown out if an officer had caught them. Their class of eighty-three was now a class of fifty-five, and Arandil’s three fellow trainees Tamion, Naresco, and Felcon were all desperate not to be the next cut. Arandil was fairly sure that at least one of their sergeants had caught onto them, since he was giving them advice and lectures about how to safely practice their current lessons unsupervised. But if the sergeants or their lieutenants had caught on, they didn’t tell the Captain, and Manco wouldn’t let anyone else tell him, either.

Despite the best that Arandil could do, Tamion was cut from the training program when he failed to master riding and shooting a bow at the same time well enough to please Captain Lumbacundo. Naresco had progressed to the point where a good night’s sleep was more important to him than a few extra hours running sword and unarmed combat drills, but Felcon still wanted Arandil’s help, and Arandil was too much his father’s son not to give it. One night when sneaking back from an unused training salle they nearly stumbled upon Lumbacundo, complaining bitterly to another Captain about trainees in general and Arandil in specific.

“After hundreds of years of saying that most ellyn aren’t ready for training until they reach full physical maturity at 100 years of age, Turgon’s golden peacock sends his oh-so-special son MY way at just barely 50!”

“He is young, and not quite full-grown. I’m not quite sure what Glorfindel was thinking with that. But the boy has skill, and the wit to use it. No one else finds him objectionable, or at least not in anything more than the normal wet-behind-the-ears way,” posited the other Captain, the one Arandil vaguely recognized as Rossion, a Captain in service to Lord Galdor of the House of the Tree.

“He’s an instigator, like his precious father.” Complained Lumbacundo, “He has that shine, and it blinds the weak-minded. There are a good five ellyn in that class who should have dropped out - they don’t have the stomach for soldiery – but they’re still there, because he thinks they can succeed.”

“Mayhap they’ll surprise you. It has been known to happen before. And I note that you are not saying that Glorendil Glorfindelchil does not belong in our number?”

Through gritted teeth, Lumbacundo admitted, “No.”

Fortunately for Felcon and Arandil, who would have been out of training faster than mice down a lizard’s gullet if they had been discovered, the two Captains finished their discussion and went home for the night in good time for the two trainees to return to their barracks.

“I don’t care what he says. I’m going to stick!” Hissed Felcon.

“Good for you.” Said Arandil loyally. Somewhat perturbed on his father’s behalf, he added, “If Captain Lumbacundo doesn’t think well of my father, then I’m sure there’s more than one soldier who’s done well despite him.”

Noticeably comforted by that, Felcon went to sleep. Arandil himself lay awake the entire night wondering what in Arda his father had done to upset his training Captain. 

In the end, thirty-seven of Captain Lumbacundo’s eighty-three soldiers lasted through the initial training period. Felcon, who had been lured away by a full apprenticeship from the blacksmiths’ guild, was not amongst them, but Naresco was, as were Manco and Arandil.

Little did Arandil know, his troubles were just beginning.

A successful end of intensive training was a grand achievement for any young aspiring soldier. At least one family member was there to greet every elf in Arandil’s class, but in his case, it was not his father or even a member of his father’s staff, but instead his cousin Laurehandon.

Laurehandon greeted Arandil with reserved affection, and politely introduced himself to Arandil’s fellow soldiers-in-training and their families. Then he took Arandil directly to King Turgon’ palace, evading all questions and comments from Arandil along the way, at least until they got to the palace proper. There he begged five minutes’ indulgence from the escort who had been sent along with them, and pulled a protesting Arandil into a cloak room.

“Of all the selfish, inconsiderate, soft-headed, idiotic things to do, Arandil!” Laurehandon scolded, shaking his younger cousin by the shoulders. “How could you run away from home like that, and draw your father into it, too!”

“I wouldn’t have had to if Atar had just let me join the army!” Arandil objected, much taken aback at this stern behavior from the indulgent older cousin who had been first his favorite babysitter and then his listening ear and protector from the displeasure of all the other adults in the family.

“If . . .” Laurehandon began to reply, blinking in shock, “You really have no idea how much trouble you’re in, do you? And that’s not even mentioning the ill-turn you did me, expecting me to cover for you when I thought you were out doing something only mildly stupid like drinking with your friends! I’d spank you myself if Uncle Glorfindel and our Aran didn’t have a better claim to your hide.”

“I . . . the Aran? Uncle Turgon?” Arandil stuttered in shock.

“He’s being the Aran, now, because you’ve made him have to be. You’re a scion of a House of Gondolin, and you blatantly flaunted the King’s laws. Do us all a favor, and take this seriously, will you?” 

With that warning ringing in his ears, how could Arandil not?

The look on his father’s face when he was brought to Turgon’s private audience chamber was something that young Arandil thought he would never forget. Glorfindel had had many response to his son’s various hi-jinks over the years, including at times towering fury, but never before had he been stone-faced. Arandil didn’t like it.

And Turgon . . . the King was coldly furious.

“Do you know what the penalty is, young Glorendil Glorfindelchil, for an elf of my city to purposely falsify an official document? Let alone to make your own father – a Lord of Gondolin! - an accomplice to the breaking of my own laws merely by being aware of it and not persecuting you for it to the full extent of the laws I made, the laws I stand for!”

“No, Aranya.” Arandil replied, dry-throated.

No sign of the ever-indulgent Uncle was present as the King straightened and delivered judgment, “You are no longer a minor, Glorendil Glorfindelchil. Your offense would be punished as that of an adult elf, unless it pleased a sentencing court to decide otherwise. For forgery of an official document, that tariff would be a public strapping, followed by up to two years imprisonment. And that is let alone the restitution that Lord Glorfindel could demand of you for thus mis-using his name.”

Arandil couldn’t think of anything to say to that. It all seemed terrifying. He had had absolutely no idea that his decisions could result in such consequences.

Aran Turgon’s tone and mien gentled, but only slightly, “Lord Glorfindel has declined to press charges, but your crime against the laws of my city remains. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Arandil didn’t. His father silently walked to his side and nudged him. Arandil managed, in a shaking voice, “No, Aranya.”

“Very well. If you confess the name and identity of your accomplice and provide details as to your crime, that will be taken into account in your sentencing.” 

It had still been a victimless crime, Arandil thought to himself, and refused his King’s offer, even though it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

Turgon’s expression hardened, “It is the request of your father, one of my most loyal and beloved retainers, that your offense not be made public. I have granted him this boon at the expense of my own honor. You will take a strapping here with your Uncles as witness. You will also be subject to house arrest at your father’s pleasure when you are not at training, for the entirety of the next two years.”

Relief and shame mingled in Arandil’s mind, leavened by a healthy dose of fear. He remembered his father’s session with their beloved Aran and his strap, and was more than a little afraid to take his turn with it. Not that it seemed he would have a choice. Even as he stood frozen, his uncles had readied a table and a strap for the King.

“Aranya.” Said Glorfindel, quietly and intently.

“No.” Replied Turgon, seeming torn. 

“Please.”

“Oh, very well,” Turgon gave his reluctant permission, to what exactly Arandil wasn’t sure.

He didn’t have long to wonder, since his father came and tugged him, unprotesting, into an antechamber.

“Wh…what?” Arandil stuttered.

“Be quiet, and strip. I want to make sure that you’re still in one piece.”

Arandil obeyed without much thought. All of his life, whenever he was at home, he had ended the evening with a last arms practice and then bathing with his father and Glorfindel’s knights. Whenever he was injured, or tired, or even just pressed beyond his limits, either by his own stubbornness or his father’s demanding training regime, Glorfindel had drawn him a bath and massaged his muscles back into some semblance of painlessness, or forbid some range of physical activity for the next day. Later in his life Arandil would realize that his father could have made an even better healer’s assistant than a warrior, but as a youth, he had just trusted his father implicitly when it came to his health.

Glorfindel’s assessing gaze ran over his son’s limbs, the great warrior subtly relaxing as he saw no more than the normal bruises that might be expected of an active young warrior in training.

“Hold still.” He commanded, running a careful hand over Arandil’s left shoulder. “You’re overdoing.” He said softly, “We’ll have to work on strengthening your upper guard.”

“I’m doing well!”

“I didn’t say that you weren’t,” replied Glorfindel, who then ruined the moment by turning Arandil over his hip and applying a swift two dozen swats to his son’s bare backside. Arandil yelped in surprise – he’d expected his father to at least wait until the King was done with him. He was too young to appreciate that, by allowing his father to spank him before strapping him, Turgon had actually done him a favor, one that would not necessarily have been extended to a youth who had been arrested and incarcerated prior to sentencing.

It was not the first time that Arandil had been spanked in Turgon’s palace, it wasn’t even the first time he’d been spanked in this particular antechamber, but this time felt different. As his father’s firm, calloused palm landed repeatedly on his unprotected bottom, the crack of hand upon buttock was very loud in the small room.

At last Glorfindel landed one more sound spank to the center of his son’s bottom. Then he turned Arandil to face him again.

“Get dressed, yonya. And remember to kneel and beg his pardon after Turgon is done with you.”

“Atto . . . he is very angry.” Arandil said softly, near overwhelmed at the thought. Never had he seen his beloved “Uncle” so cold and furious with him.

Glorfindel appeared at a temporary loss of words, but only for a moment. Being at a loss of words was almost never a problem Glorfindel suffered for very long, and often only at all in the presence of his son. When he spoke his words were forceful.

“Glorendil, you are a difficult, disobedient, willful youth, but you've never been afraid to accept the consequences of your actions. I'm proud of you for that." 

Arandil had to be content with that thin comfort, for it was then that his father escorted him back to the King.

A table had been set before Turgon, with a cushion placed on the nearer edge. Arandil came up short when he saw it, remembering his own father’s ordeal on the receiving end of the Aran’s strap. Arandil summoned his courage and walked towards his King. He was frightened, and sure that the next minutes would be painful, but not as painful as the knowledge of how he had shamed his family and tarnished the honor of his father and his King.

The King who now stood watching his approach. Still stone-faced, he gestured to the table, then held up his hand for Arandil to pause before he could lay himself on top of it.

Arandil’s uncles Siromo, Helyandur, and Ecthelion were there, as well. Ecthelion aided Arandil to doff his tunic. Glorfindel gruffly told Arandil to hold still, then pulled Arandil’s leggings down to his ankles. Siromo and Helyandur helped Arandil position himself over the cushion, then pinned up his undershirt. If it weren’t for the prospect of the strapping facing him, he would have been horribly embarrassed to be bare-bottomed for a strapping in front of his beloved and much respected uncles. As it was, the breeze from the high windows which stirred the banners and chilled his bare backside merely made Arandil think of how uncomfortable he would soon be.

There was a sigh and a rustle behind him, then Turgon squeezed his shoulder.

“Stand up, titta Arandilya. You aren’t tall enough yet for this pillow to put you at the proper angle.”

Arandil obediently stood, shivering in the cool air as Turgon called for Ecthelion to pull down a banner and fold it to an appropriate thickness. Going back over the table, and the previously innocent silk banner, seemed almost worst the second time.

At least until the King’s strap made its appearance. Turgon’s strap looked to be about twenty inches long, a full half-foot longer than the strap Glorfindel had nearly worn out on his son’s backside. Glorfindel’s strap was short enough that Arandil fit well – entirely too well – over his lap for it to be applied. The strap that Turgon had chosen for Arandil’s punishment was too long to be applied over the knee, and in fact covered the breadth of Arandil’s bottom in a single stroke. Or so he noticed in faint panic as Turgon aimed and slapped him lightly, testing his aim. The strap slithered across Arandil’s bottom, then left and returned in a breath-taking slap.

At first Arandil couldn’t even feel the pain, but then it came in a harsh burn that had him rearing up. His father’s hand held him in place for the next impact, and the next, and the next. Turgon marched the strap from the fullest part of Arandil’s bottom down to the tops of his thighs, then back up again. Arandil lost track of the number of strokes, although Ecthelion later assured him it had only been sixteen. 

At the end, his father and Ecthelion helped steady him to his feet. Not even yet reordering his clothes, he knelt at Turgon’s feet and begged the Aran’s pardon for his crimes.

Turgon pulled Arandil to his feet, kissing him once on each cheek and then on the brow.

“I forgive thee, my son, but you still must serve out your sentence. Only then can I unreservedly accept you back into my good graces.”

And Arandil had to be content with that, too.

Then when they had returned home, after the most uncomfortable ride of Arandil’s young life, he still had to face his worried mother.

“You spent the whole night on the street, anything could have happened to you!”

“I’m sorry, Amme.”

Laureamoriel was a willowy, delicate elleth, but in that moment she was entirely more terrifying than even Captain Lumbacundo. Arandil looked to his father, hoping for help. Glorfindel raised one elegant golden eyebrow, as if to say that Arandil was on his own.

“If your father and Turgon hadn’t already, I would spank you myself!”

“Amme!” 

“Never again, Glorendil! Can you even imagine how worried we were when Laurehandon came to us the next morning and told us that he had no idea where you were!”

“Ah . . . I hope that you weren’t too angry with him?”

Laureamoriel boxed his ears, hugged him again, and then made him sit down with her to tell her all about his training. His father lingered in the room, pretending not to listen.

Dinner that evening was all of Arandil’s favorite dishes, except dessert, which was apparently forbidden to him for the duration of the two years he would have otherwise spent in prison. That was very upsetting news, but given the day’s emotional upheavals, it wasn’t really bothering Arandil yet. And having perfectly cooked food made from the finest ingredients after weeks of soldier’s rations was amazing.

His father ran him a bath in the deep stone bathing pool attached to Arandil’s luxurious suite of rooms. The scent of healing herbs and unguents said “home” to Arandil as much as the smell of his mother’s perfume. Glorfindel worked over Arandil’s various aches and pains, muttering under his breath- and then quite loudly – about what a fool Lumbacundo was.

“You’re slender and lean, you’re never going to make a broadsword-elf. I have no idea what that ass is thinking, having you run drills in full armor with a blade the size of a goat.”

“If you don’t want me training with Captain Lumbacundo, Atto, then why didn’t you just come and pull me from the class?” That was half what Arandil had expected, after all.

Glorfindel sighed. “Because, my dear young idiot, the only way I could do that was to publicly admit what it was that you had done.”

“Which would have gotten me arrested.”

“With my only other option being you being trained by a blunt, short-sighted, bully of an elf. It was the most difficult decision I’ve ever made, but your Lieutenant Elloner and Sergeant Orolos assured us that you were doing well, despite Lumbacundo.

“Why does he hate you so much?”

Glorfindel put his hand on Arandil’s shoulder and stared off into space.

“I’ve made enemies over the course of my life, Glorendil. When you’re older, I may explain more of that to you. Lumbacundo is one of them - not the worst, or even the second worst, but possibly . . . the third worst. But the only way to get you out of it would have been to tell the truth about what you did, and that would have gotten you sent to prison. And do you understand, my dearly beloved son, that if you were to be arrested for such a crime, it would be a hundred years before you could again be qualified to serve in the military? Ah, I thought that you did not.”

Glorfindel shook his head, and then cupped Arandil’s cheek in his hand. “Why in Eru’s name would you do such a foolish, deceitful thing?”

“I . . . really didn’t think it through. I was just so desperate to join the army, to begin training to be a soldier.”

“But, why?”

“YOU wouldn't understand,” mourned Arandil bitterly. 

Glorfindel growled and got up to pace. “I’m not sure why you think that. I gave up everything for a chance to fulfill my dream of becoming a soldier, to serve and protect. I gave up my family, I starved when I could not afford food, I ....Glorendil, all you had to do was wait a handful of years. That is nothing.” 

“It is nothing to you,” Arandil disagreed. 

“I do not think I was ever as young as you are now,” said Glorfindel, disgusted. 

“Well, I don't think so either,” Said Arandil. Then he paused to think, and shrunk into himself, “And the fact that I didn't think this through - didn't think through that I was committing a crime and betraying everything the army is supposed to stand for - is proof that you were right, and I wasn't ready.” 

Glorfindel grunted, perhaps in agreement. “Too late for that now. You'll do your best, and you'll do it while under house arrest here. And while undergoing most if not all of the training I had planned for you, before you decided to enlist yourself as a soldier.” 

“But, Atto, that's not fair!,” Arandil objected, before quailing at look in his father's eyes. 

“If I hear the words "that's not fair' from you again, yonya, you're going to get a spanking on the spot. And I know what you can do better than you do. I won't ask for more than you can give,” Glorfindel smiled toothily, “unless I expect that I can get it!”

The next day, Arandil got another strapping, this one from his father. The thing about a strapping was, the burn was intense while you were under the leather, and you felt aflame for a good few hours after, but by the next day, you were left with naught more than an itching, tingly discomfort. So Arandil was not in poor shape to go back to training after his first weekend leave. However, he was sadly certain that he was the only trainee to have run afoul of his father, let alone received a sound spanking followed by a blistering strapping. Of course, he was probably also the only trainee to have forged his father's signature on his admission papers. 

It was the first of two times that Arandil defied his father's will in a significant way and got away with it (although it didn't really feel like "getting away with it," by the time more than a few weeks of his 'house arrest' had finished). But still, he'd won. The second time was his participation in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Learning from his first experience with thwarting his father's will in a significant matter, Arandil got Turgon on his side before leaving for the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. In the end, Glorfindel got the last laugh, because in the Second Age, it was Glorfindel who succeeded in keeping Arandil more-or-less out of the battles following the Fall of Eregion, and out of the War of Wrath.


End file.
